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llAryL^ij^  <*|  SL<  fffijg^ck. 


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y 


~r 


OK 

Passionate 

Ream 


By  ANNA  MacMANUS 
(ETHNA  CARBERY). 
AUTHOR  OF  "THE 
FOUR  WINDS  OF 
EIRINN." 


FUNK    &   WAGNALLS   COMPANY 

NEW  YORK 


The  Stories  herein  included  appeared,  for  the  most 
part,  in  The  Shan  Van  Vocht,  The  Catholic  Fireside, 
and  Donahoe's  Magazine.  To  the  editors  of  the  two 
latter,  thanks  are  due  for  permission  to  republish. 


Copyright  igoj,  U.  S.  A.     All  Rights  Reserved 


ETHNA     CARBERY. 


She  who  wrote  these  stories   of  our   people  loved 

them  with  a  love  that  was  deep  and  tender  beyond 

what    words    of    mine    could    convey.        When    she 

wrote  of  our  people,  when  she  spoke   of  our  people 

— her    people — her   eyes    went    wet    with  fondness. 

Her  faith  in  them  was  full,  and  great,  and  strong. 

Through  their  noble  nature  Mother  Eire  would,  she 

knew,     ere     long      rise     triumphant.        Hear    her 

words : — 

"  We  yet  shall  win  a  gold  crown  for  your  head, 
Strong  wine  to  make  a  royal  feast — the  white  wine  and  the  red 
And  in  your  oaken  mcthcr  the  yellow  mead  shall  flow 
What  day  you  rise,  in  all  men's  eyes  a  Queen, 
Mo  Chraoibhin  Cno  ! 

4  The  silver  speech  our  fathers  knew  shall  once  again  be  heard ; 
The  firelit  story ',  crooning  song,  sweeter  than  lilt  of  bird; 
Your  quicken  tree  shall  break  in  flower,  its  ruddy  fruit  shall  glow, 
When  your  splendid  Sun  shall  ride  the  skies  again, 
Mo  Chraoibhin  Cno  !  " 

To  this  glorious  Day  of  the  Gael  Ethna   Carbery 

looked  forward  eagerly,  longingly,  lovingly;  and  of 

it  she   never  ceased  to  sing. 

'Long  is  ojir  hunger  for  your  voice,  the  Hour  is  drawing  near — 
Oh,  Dark  Rose  of  our  passion — call,  and  our  hearts  shall  hear  !  " 

235564 


If  any  sacrifice  on  her  part — even  that  of  her 
bright  and  buoyant  life  itself — could  have  hastened 
the  Hour j  the  sacrifice  would,  by  her,  have  been 
accounted  the  crowning  happiness  of  a  life  already 
happy  beyond  the  ordinary. 

Little  dreamt  she  that  ere  the  glory  burst  upon 
Erinn,  God  should  have  taken  her  to  watch  for  it 
fro7n  His  footstool.  Yet,  now  that  the  grass  is 
green  above  her  grave  in  Donegal,  the  friends 
who  knew  her — who  knew  her  unending  work  for 
our  land,  and  who  knew  the  passio?iate  love  of 
country  that  consumed  her — can  stand  by  that  little 
mound  and  say  from  their  hearts:  There  lies  one 
iv ho  gave  her  young  life  to   Ireland. 

Seumas  MacManus. 

Donegal,  April,  1903. 


CONTENTS. 


♦:^ 


PAGE. 

The  Passionate  Hearts  of  Inisgloir  ii 

The  Men  of  the  Music          ...            ...  45 

The  Wee  Gray  Woman          ...            ...  61 

The  Singing  Women  of  Tory              ...  73 

Sorcha  Ruadh's  Troubles     ...            ...  93 

By  the  Misty  Burn  ...            ...            ...  109 


Ok  Passionate  Ream  of 

Inisaloir* 


The  Passionate  Hearts  of  Inisgloir. 

T   A   7"  HEN     John    Gilchrist   resolved    to    spend    his 
▼    V         summer  holidays  upon  Inisgloir  in  quest  of 
Gaelic  folk-songs,  his  friend,  Finian  Lynch, 
heard  of  the  project  with  hearty  approval. 

"Go  by  all  means,"  he  wrote,  "and  I  warrant  you'll  find 
no  more  charming  seanachie  than  Brighid  Ni  Bhriain. 
She  has  all  the  old  ranns  and  stories  of  the  place  off  by 
heart;  and  tells  them  very  sweetly,  too.  Besides,  she  is 
very  beautiful.  But  you  are  not  to  fall  in  love  with  her, 
mind,  or  try  to  make  her  fall  in  love  with  you,  for  she  is 
bespoke  already,  and  Peadar  Ban  would  make  short  work 
of  you  if  it  came  to  blows.  His  handshake,  when  you 
meet  him,  will  convince  you  of  that/' 

So  Gilchrist  landed  one  July  afternoon  from  the  cur- 
rach  that  had  conveyed  him  across  the  mile  of  rocky  sea, 
where  the  steamer  dare  not  venture.  He  clambered  up 
the  bare  terraces  of  limestone  to  the  house  of  Dara  Ua 
Brian — the  father  of  B  rigid — with  whom  he  was  to  take 
up  his  abode  during  his  stay  on  the  island.  The  cottage 
stood  on  a  high  green  plateau  that  seemed  strangely  out 
of  keeping  with  its  dull  surroundings,  for  Inisgloir  was — ■ 
save  for  a  few  of  these  isolated  fertile  spots — a  long,  wide 
stretch  of  grey  storm-swept  level  stone,  intersected  here 
and  there  with  deep  natural  clefts,  in  which  the  delicate 
maiden-hair  and  the  rock-violet  grew  fearlessly.  Gil- 
christ had  to  venture  over  many  of  these  chasms  on  his 
way  up  from  the  beach,  and  it  was  with  a  sign  of  satis- 


12      '    '■'  «     .'    TB&;  PASSIONATE    HEAKTS. 

faction  ,  tlii'-t  li3;  dropped .'  his  heavy  valise  on  Dara's 
threshold,  and  straightened  himself  to  wipe  his  damp 
brow. 

"  God  save  all  here/'  he  said  in  Gaelic,  leaning  one 
hand  on  the  lintel  and  peering  into  the  dark  interior, 
darker  to  his  eyes  after  the  white  blinding  glare  of  the 
sun. 

"  God  and  Mary  save  you,"  came  the  response  in  a 
clear  vibrant  voice,  as  a  girl  stepped  out  from  the 
shadows.  Gilchrist  mechanically  pulled  off  his  cap  at 
sight  of  her,  and  for  a  moment  felt  too  amazed  to  speak. 
But  in  the  pleasurable  thrill  that  flashed  cnrough  his 
whole  body  he  recognised  her  as  the  most  beautiful  crea- 
ture he  had  ever  seen.  Standing  there  in  the  doorway, 
with  the  strong  searching  beams  of  day  full  upon  her, 
and  the  gloom  of  the  kitchen  behind,  she  came  upon  his 
senses  like  a  rainbow  leaping  between  the  sword  of  the 
sun  and  the  dark  army  of  storm-clouds  in  a  battling  sky. 
8he  was  clad  in  the  ordinary  costume  of  the  island,  a 
scarlet  homespun  petticoat,  and  bodice  of  dark  blue, 
while  round  her  neck  was  folded  a  white  kerchief,  and  on 
her  feet  were  the  native  pampooties  of  cow-hide.  This 
much  he  saw  in  that  first  glance,  before  his  quick  interest 
became  rivetted  on  her  face  under  its  nimbus  of  glorious 
red  hair.  He  stared  boldly  at  it,  noting  its  perfect 
loveliness,  with  all  an  artist's  delight :  the  noble  breadth 
above  the  brows ;  the  rounded  beauty  of  the  firm  chin ; 
the  creamy  paleness  of  the  cheeks,  contrasting  so  vividly 
with  the  sweet  red  lips ;  the  delicate  nose,  slightly  aquil- 
ine, and  the  dark  blue,  almost  purple  eyes,  which  held  a 
question  as  they  met  his  own. 

"  I  am  John  Gilchirst,"  he  said  simply,  in  answer  to 
her  look. 

"  Oh,  Mac  Giolla  Chriost,"  she  exclaimed  pleasantly, 


THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS.  13 

giving  him  his  full  name  in  the  Gaelic,  which  means  the 
Son  of  the  Servant  of  Christ.  "  Is  it  you  that  is  in  it? 
Come  in  then,  gentleman,  and  a  hundred  thousand  wel- 
comes. " 

Her  exclamations  brought  Dara,  and  Sibeal,  his  wife, 
to  the  door,  with  outstretched  hands  and  friendly  greet- 
ings. Gilchirst  gladly  took  a  seat  in  the  corner  of  the 
settle  and  the  tin  of  foaming  milk  which  Brigid  made 
haste  to  offer. 

Tis  the  fortunate  man  I  am,"  he  said,  contentedly, 
turning  his  boyish  smile  from  one  to  the  other,  "  to  meet 
such  heartiness  in  a  strange  place.  I  was  half  afraid  to 
come — indeed  I  was — lest  I  should  be  treated  as  a 
stranger,  though  my  friend,  Lynch,  assured  me  that  I 
would  not  be.  It  was  all  because  you  have  the  name  of 
being  very  clannish  and  reserved  on  the  mainland 
beyond." 

"  That  may  be,"  replied  Dara  thoughtfully,  running 
his  fingers  in  a  puzzled  fashion  through  his  thick  grizzled 
hair;  "but  have  you  ever  heard  the  name  they  do  be 
putting  on  us  in  the  other  islands — the  Passionate 
Hearts?  That  does  not  sound  cold  and  reserved,  now 
does  it,  Mac  Giolla  Chriost  ?  " 

Gilchrist  leaned  forward  eagerly.  "  The  Passionate 
Hearts!  What  a  delightful  idea.  What  does  it  mean? 
Does  it  mean  that  you  are  very  fierce,  and  dangerous, 
and  to  be  avoided? ' 

Dara  smiled  and  shook  his  head ;  but  Brigid  stopped 
in  her  work  of  piling  fresh  turf  on  the  fire  to  answer. 

"Ah,  no,  gentleman" — her  voice  was  full  of  a  sweet 
gravity — "  not  now.  It  may  have  been  so  in  the  far-off 
times ;  but  now  we  live  in  peace  with  all." 

"  The  Passionate  Hearts,"  Gilchrist  repeated  the  name 
musingly,    when   Sibeal  had  ru^ved  out  of  ear-shot,  and 


14  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

Dara  had  gone  to  bring  water  from  the  well.  "  The 
Passionate  Hearts.  It  may  mean  that  if  you  are  no 
longer  dangerous  in  war  you  may  be  dangerous  in  peace." 

Brigid  paused.  "  How  might  that  be,  Mac  Giolla 
Chriost?" 

"  Why  in  friendship — in  love,  for  instance." 

She  lifted  her  dreamy  eyes  and  gazed  at  him  doubt- 
fully. There  was  no  sign  of  amusement  on  his  counten- 
ance, and  she  believed  he  spoke  in  all  seriousness.  She 
knit  her  brows  perplexed. 

"  I  do  not  know."  She  spoke  shyly,  as  if  ashamed  of 
her  own  ignorance.  "  I  never  heard  that  meaning  given. 
Yet  it  may  be  so  ?  "  and  a  sudden  deep  blush  crept  up 
from  her  neck  to  the  golden  glory  of  her  hair. 

Gilchrist  soon  made  himself  quite  at  home  on  the 
island.  He  became  free  of  every  house  from  end  to  end 
of  it.  Sometimes  he  might  be  found  seated  beside  an  old 
woman  at  her  knitting,  tossing  the  ball  of  wool  idly  from 
one  hand  to  another,  while  she  crooned  for  him  the 
peasant  ballads  he  loved ;  or  perhaps  it  would  be  by  a 
child's  cradle,  taking  down  from  the  mother's  lips  as  she 
rocked,  the  sweet  hushful  lullaby  with  its  swaying  re- 
frain. At  Eamon's  Corner,  when  the  fisher-folk  fore- 
gathered in  the  evenings,  he  heard  tale  after  tale  of  the 
marvellous  part  of  Eri,  of  giants,  of  wild  witch-women, 
of  the  sea-people  who  dwell  beneath  the  blue  waves,  and 
of  the  sidhe— the  fairies — hidden  away  in  Us  or  in  the 
heart  of  the  lonely  green  hills.  He  heard,  too,  songs  of 
battle,  of  love,  of  hate,  songs  which  saddened  or  thrilled 
him  as  the  theme  changed  with  the  mood  of  the  singer, 
until  his  blood  surged  hotly,  and  he  felt  that  those  sing- 
ing voices  were  so  many  cruel  instruments  tearing  away 
the  shrouding  veil  of  his  desires.  From  Dara,  out  fishing 
in  his  currach,  he  learnt  the  names  and  habits  of  the  fish 


THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS.  15 

darting  like  swift  streaks  of  silver  in  the  transparent 
depths.  lie  would  sit  for  hours  watching  him  angle  for 
the  timid  rock-fish,  which  is  so  delicate  in  flavour,  and 
whose  wonderfully  speckled  body  has  the  blue-green 
sheen  of  a  spear.  He  joined,  too,  in  the  pursuit  of  the 
sun-fish — liabhan  greine,  the  natives  call  it — and  when 
the  elusive  bright  body  disappeared  into  a  whirl  of  shel- 
tering foam,  he  invariably  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief,  for 
he  hated  physical  pain,  and  loathed  to  see  the  tortured 
fish  dragging  behind  the  currach.  Only  for  the  thought 
of  those  cruel  hooks  he  would  have  taken  more 
pleasure  in  the  fishermen,  they  were  so  calm  and  serious, 
and  he  could  dream  to  his  heart's  content  swayed  in  the 
brown  boat  on  a  softly  wrinkling  sea.  He  did  not  relish 
so  much  his  experience  as  a  cragsman,  when  he  followed 
Peadar  Ban  at  night  down  the  beetling  cliffs  to  the 
ledges  where  the  puffin  and  gannet,  and  scarlet-beaked 
chough,  lay  in  slumber,  and  while  the  islander  tied  the 
legs  of  the  sleeping  birds,  his  own  brain  grew  dizzy  in  the 
starlight  dark,  so  that  he  would  have  fallen  but  for 
Peadar  Ban's  strong  arm,  which  went  round  him  in 
answer  to  his  cry,-  and  dragged  him  to  safety.  There- 
after he  preferred  to  study  ornithology  from  a  less  peril- 
ous point  of  view. 

With  the  island-women  specially  he  quickly  became  a 
favourite.  What  mother's  heart  would  not  warm  to  him 
when  he  stooped  so  gently  to  kiss  the  child  in  her  arms, 
praising  its  infant  beauty,  and  whispering  '  God  bless 
it,"  to  keep  the  evil  spirits  afar.  He  knew  by  instinct 
the  direct  way  to  a  woman's  good  graces.  Young  as  he 
v.  as  he  had  had  experience,  and  the  knowledge  gained  in 
the  world  he  carried  with  him  to  the  quiet  island.  In 
the  world  that  audacious  masterful  air,  with  its  unex- 
pected phases  of  tenderness — which    he   could   no    more 


16  THE    PASSIONATE    HEAKTS. 

help  than  he  could  help  breathing — was  his  most  potent 
weapon  with  all  the  different  women  he  wished  to  im- 
press. The  elder  women  forgave  it  as  the  affectation  of  a 
spoilt  boy,  and  indulgently  burned  their  motherly  in- 
cense at  the  shrine  of  his  youthful  vanity.  To  the  young 
girls  his  talk  and  manners  carried  the  conviction  that  he 
had  gone  through  much ;  they  had  a  vague  idea,  from  his 
occasional  penitent  poses,  that  his  wild  days  had  been 
wild  days  indeed,  and  because  of  this,  even  in  their  flip- 
pant moods,  they  accorded  a  respectful  attention  to  his 
opinions.  Some  women  look  with  a  certain  terrified 
interest  at  a  brand  snatched  from  the  burning.  And 
Gilchrist  was  a  very  attractive  brand.  As  a  conversa- 
tionalist, a  storv-teller,  a  debater,  he  was  unsurpassed. 
Then  his  eyes  would  flash— those  indolent  dark  eyes — 
and  his  whole  slight  frame  quiver  with  the  feeling  that 
failed  to  express  itself  in  his  most  eloquent  sentences. 
When  he  lounged  by  some  homely  hearthside,  narrating 
tales  of  past  heroism,  and  mournfully  bewailing  the  lack 
of  heroes  in  the  less  spiritually-inclined  to-day,  he  gener- 
ally left  his  listeners  under  the  impression,  skilfully  con- 
veyed, that  at  least  one  man  had  inherited  the  bygone 
intellect  and  bravery  and  grandeur  of  character, 
although,  so  far,  those  gifts  of  the  gods  had  not  been 
stirred  to  the  surface  by  opportunity. 

These  were  his  best  moments.  At  other  times  he  was 
a  different  being.  He  honestly  meant  to  be  true  to  the 
better  part.  Now  and  again  he  felt  exalted  and  noble 
enough  to  die  for  a  great  cause;  but  in  the  revulsion  he 
might  as  readily  betray  it.  The  forces  of  good  and  evil, 
which  in  some  souls  fight  half-heartedly,  in  his  waged 
battle  all  day  long  and  with  all  their  power.  Often  he 
would  give  way  to  an  impulse  of  passionate  praying,  and 
rise  from  his  knees  to  seek  his  boon  companions,  in  whose 


THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS.  17 

excesses  he  would  be  the  most  boisterous  and  the  most 
daring.  Yet,  withal,  even  those  who  knew  him  best,  and 
realised  his  failings,  bestowed  upon  him  their  pity  rather 
than  their  blame. 

To  Brighid  Ni  Bhriain  the  coming  of  Gilchirst  to  Inis- 
gloir  was  as  the  advent  of  a  light  into  a  black  desolation. 
Life,  the  gray  quiet  life  she  had  endured  without  deem- 
ing it  endurance,  was  now  a  realm  of  radiance,  full  of 
warm  colour,  of  sweet  sounds,  of  unutterable  joyousness. 
She  had  not  hitherto  imagined  that  the  hard  work-a-day 
earth  could  so  swiftly  become  a  kingdom  of  enchantment, 
and  solely  because  of  one  passing  guest.  All  thought  of 
Peadar  Ban  and  his  faithful  love  slipped  away  into  the 
background  of  her  memory.  She  felt  like  a  dream 
moving  through  a  dream,  in  which  the  thin  sallow  face  of 
the  newcomer  was  ever  before  her,  and  the  echoing  halls 
of  her  fancy  were  filled  with  the  music  of  his  voice.  Her 
sympathies  grew  to  quiver  under  his  moods,  so  that  she 
became  dull  or  gay  as  he  was  either  of  these.  When  she 
sang  him  the  ballads  he  had  come  in  quest  of,  she  knew  it 
was  her  soul  going  forth  to  meet  his  on  eveiy  wave  of  the 
sad  exquisite  music.  The  idea  never  entered  her  mind 
that  he  had  set  the  snare  of  his  experience  to  draw  her 
heart  out  of  her — to  bruise  or  break.  Even  had  she 
known  that  this  was  so,  she  would  have  loved  him  just 
the  same,  for  her  nature  was  such  that  its  surrender  to 
its  first  strong  passion  must  necessarily  be  complete.  She 
could  not  understand  half  measures  in  a  case  of  life  and 
death,  and  the  love  of  Gilchrist  meant  the  life  or  death 
of  her  happiness.  One  old  song,  Oganaigh  an  Chuil 
Cheangailte  (Ringleted  Youth  of  My  Love),  which  was 
among  his  favourites,  and  which  she  never  tired  of  sing- 
ing, had  a  verse  that  seemed  to  her  the  personification  of 
her  own  fancies  concerning  him.  In  the  Gaelic  it  is  many 

B 


18  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

times  more  melodious  and  more  passionate  than  in  this 
cold  speech  of  the  Sassanach  :  — 

"  I  thought,  O  my  love,  you  were  so — 

As  the  moon  is,  or  sun  on  a  fountain, 
And  I  thought  after  that  you  were  snow, 

The  cold  snow  on  top  of  a  mountain ; 
And  I  thought  after  that  you  were  more 

Like  God's  lamp  shining  to  find  me, 
Or  the  bright  Star  of  Knowledge  before 

And  the  Star  of  Knowledge  behind  me." 

The  discovery  that  Brigid  had  shed  her  love  like  soft 
rose  petals  about  him  caused  Gilchrist  little  surprise. 
Sometimes,  it  is  true,  his  conscience  troubled  him,  as  he 
remembered  the  girl  he  had  left  behind  with  his  kiss 
upon  her  lips — the  girl  to  whom  he  had  given  his  word, 
and  whose  fortune  was  to  make  his  future.  But  then, 
"  She  will  never  know,"  his  worst  self  whispered.  "  She 
is  far  away,  and  she  is  too  wise  to  trouble  her  sensible 
head  with  doubts." 

And  with  this  assurance  he  lulled  the  unruly  accusing 
voice  to  rest. 

The  superb  unconsciousness  of  Peadar  Ban  gave  aD 
impetus  to  his  pursuit  of  Brigid.  The  young  islander 
was  proud  to  see  his  handsome  girl  so  admired  by  the 
gentleman  stranger,  and  it  awakened  no  jealousy  in  him 
to  find  her  time  occupied  by  Gilchrist.  It  was  no  new 
thing  for  visitors  to  the  island  to  seek  her  company  on 
their  wanderings  over  it;  she  knew  more  of  its  history 
than  any  of  the  other  young  people,  and  had  all  the  old 
ranns  to  give  for  the  asking.  Even  in  Sibeal's  motherly 
heart  there  was  not  a  shade  of  suspicion,  and  Dara's  keen 
eyes  were  never  keen,  but  soft  and  lovingly  blind,  when 
he  looked  upon  his  daughter. 


THE    PAS8I0NATE    n  i:a  i;i  - .  1 '.) 

Under  their  unseeing  contentment  Gilchrist  wove  the 
network  of  his  snares  around  Brigid.  He  had  many 
ways  of  torturing  her,  now  that  he  had  grown  certain  of 
her  love.  Once  he  told  her  how  he  had  permitted  a  man 
who  had  been  his  enemy  to  do  a  wrong  deed,  when  a 
word  from  him  would  ha»ve  prevented  the  doing.  He 
told  the  story  graphically,  not  sparing  himself,  solely  for 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  shocked  misery  on  her  face. 
She  had  a  strange  faculty  of  experiencing  sensations  in 
colours  on  her  mental  vision,  and  as  he  confessed  this 
fault,  lying  back  carelessly  in  his  chair,  she  saw  his  words 
dancing  before  her  mind  in  a  fiery  line  ot  scarlet — the 
colour  of  shame.  Yet,  when  he  had  ended,  and  turned 
an  interrogative  glance  on  her,  he  met  only  the  piteous 
loving  appeal  of  her  blue  tear-wet  eyes.  She  would  not 
believe  his  own  accusations  of  himself,  and  sorrowfully 
wrought  upon  him,  until  to  soothe  her  he  took  her  into 
his  arms  and  denied  the  truth. 

For  days  at  a  time  she  walked  en  the  borderland  of 
paradise — he  was  so  tender,  so  devoted.  "  My  Passionate 
Heart,"  he  called  her,  playfully  taxing  her  with  keeping 
the  true  meaning  of  the  name  a  secret. 

"  Some  day  I  shall  waken  to  find  out  what  it  means, 
and  what  lies  behind  your  gentle  smile,  my  Brigid,  and 
the  discovery  may  be  a  calamitous  one  for  me  :  "  at  which 
Brigid  would  shake  her  bright  head  gaily  to  reassure 
him.  She  was  a  radiant  beam  of  happiness  under  the 
sweet  words  of  his  love. 

Then  his  tactics  would  change,  and  for  days  he  would 
treat  her  with  icy  formality,  avoiding  the  wistful  ques- 
tioning of  her  eyes.  To  Brigid  this  was  the  flaming 
sword  of  the  angel  at  the  gate.  Often  he  carried  his 
cruelty  so  far  as  to  ignore  the  dainties  she  had  made 
specially  because  he  had  hinted  a  desire  for  them,  and 


20  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

tax  both  his  teeth  and  his  patience  to  the  utmost  over 
the  tough  bread  that  was  the  acme  of  Sibeal's  culinary 
skill.  Brigid  would  lie  awake  at  night,  weeping,  praying, 
tossing  from  side  to  side  in  an  agonised  wonder  as  to 
what  her  fault  had  been,  to  rise  unrested  with  swollen 
eyes  and  pallid  cheeks  in  the  dawn.  When  he  saw  her 
thus  he  felt  gratified  enough  to  alter  his  humour, 
and  perhaps  the  first  sign  of  relenting  would  be  his  deli- 
berate soft  touch  upon  her  hand,  as  she  moved  the  things 
to  and  fro  upon  the  table.  Then  their  eyes  would  meet, 
and  on  poor  Brigid's  side  all  would  be  forgiven. 

One  day  of  days — the  most  blissful  perhaps  of  all  that 
wonderful  time — she  went  across  with  Gilchrist  in 
Peadar  Ban's  currach  to  the  south  island.  Gilchrist,  in 
his  usual  fashion,  fell  a-dreaming  to  the  rise  and  fall  of 
the  waves.  He  could  watch  Brigid  where  she  sat  erect 
and  slender  in  the  stern,  and  he  thought  of  her  tenderly 
as  his  glance  followed  the  steady  sweep  of  the  oars. 
Peadar  Ban  was  a  fine  rower  for  sure ;  see  how  carefully 
he  could  steer  the  boat  in  and  out  the  snares  of  those 
twisting  white  foam  wreaths.  It  was  curious  how  in- 
different Peadar  was  to  Brigid's  charms.  He  could  never 
have  loved  her  really  or  he  would  have  been  jealous 
many  times  of  late.  But  then  these  islanders  did  not 
make  any  visible  pretence  of  love  in  their  matches ;  they 
rarely  embraced  one  another;  they  seemed  more  en- 
grossed in  the  practical  consideration  of  providing  for 
the  future,  and  there  was  an  unwritten  law  forbidding 
even  the  most  trifling  improvidence  in  the  case  of  a 
young  man  seeking  a  wife ;  in  fact  no  one  of  them  would 
venture  to  ask  a  girl  except  he  had  his  home  ready  for 
her  coming.  Engagements,  such  as  were  the  custom  of 
the  outer  world,  were  unknown  amongst  them.  "  '  The 
Passionate  Hearts !  '      Where  does  the  passion  come  in, 


THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS.  21 

I  wonder?'  Gilchrist  almost  laughed  aloud  at  thij 
stage  of  his  musings.  Suddenly  he  caught  sight  of  a 
name  on  the  side  of  the  currach,  and  leant  over  to  read 
it.  The  spray  beat  up  against  it,  so  that  he  spelt  out  the 
letters  with  some  difficulty. 

"  Brigid  !  "  he  exclaimed. 
'  Brigid/  yes.       That  is  the  name  she  has  for  sure, 
Mac  Giolla  Chriost,"  said  Peadar  Ban,  meeting  his  look. 
The  dearest  name  in  the  world,  it  is  then,"  said  Gil- 
christ.    "  My  favourite  name." 

Brigid  blushed  happily.  "  It  was  the  name  Peadar 
put  on  it  long  ago,  oh  !  so  long  ago,  Mac  Giolla  Chriost — 
when  we  were  but  children,"  she  hastened  to  add,  noting: 
a  shade  akin  to  displeasure  on  the  other's  face 

Peadar  turned  round  to  her  at  the  words,  his  strong 
countenance  suffused  with  feeling. 

'  Children,  or  man  and  woman,  it  is  always  the  same, 
Brigid.  And  you  know  it,  pulse  of  my  heart."  And 
then  he  bent  again  to  his  oars. 

Gilchrist  stirred  restlessly  in  a  whirl  of  emotion.  The 
peace  of  mind  was  gone.  That  unexpected  remark  of 
the  young  islander  had  been  a  revelation  to  him.  It  en- 
raged him ;  it  offended  his  refined  susceptibilities ;  it 
fanned  his  vanity,  and  augmented  his  desire. 

"  I  shall  not  let  him  win  her,"  lie  stormed  inwardly. 
1  She  is  mine.  She  must  be  mine."  Then  he  reflected 
that  there  might  easily  be  worse  situations  than  existence 
with  Brigid  on  Inisgloir.  What  if  he  determined  there 
and  then  to  make  her  his  wife,  and  begin  a  new  life  with 
her  on  the  lonely  little  world  of  rocks.  Would  his  way- 
ward disposition  settle  down  to  the  level  of  these  serious 
fisher-folk— he  never  asked  himself  if  it  could  rise  to 
their  heights — and  while  his  children  grew  up  around 
him,  would  the  monotonous  slow-passing  hours  bring  him 


22  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

no  regrets?  He  pondered  long  over  the  question,  until 
in  the  stress  of  answering  it  he  forgot  where  he  was,  for- 
got sea,  and  lowering  sky,  and  the  heaving  boat.  A 
heavy  rain-drop  splashing  on  his  cheek  recalled  him  to 
actualities.  He  sat  upright  with  a  start  and  crushed  the 
hateful  question  into  the  far  recesses  of  his  brain,  much 
as  a  murderous  hand  might  press  a  drowning  head 
deeper  into  the  clutch  of  engulfing  billows. 

That  night  he  spent  several  hours  writing  a  letter.  It 
was  to  his  fiancee,  and  he  purposely  made  it  a  very  amus- 
ing letter — full  of  details  and  island  gossip,  for  she  en- 
joyed trivialities.  Her  name  given  at  the  baptismal  font 
was  Brigid,  but  it  had  been  refined  into  Bedelia  during 
her  school-days  at  a  fashionable  convent.  Gilchrist  made 
a  jest  of  the  absurd  exchange,  and  called  her  Brigid  not- 
withstanding her  protests.  He  now  smiled  grimly  to 
himself  as  he  wrote  the  objectionable  name. 

"  To-day  I  was  out  with  a  young  fisherman  for  a  row 
to  another  of  the  islands.  He  was  the  owner  of  our  cur- 
rach,  and  guess  what  he  had  called  it?  But  you  will 
never  guess.  '  Brigid,'  no  less.  Yes,  indeed,  your  dear 
name.  I  spoke  my  thoughts  aloud,  forgetting.  '  That 
is  my  favourite  name,'  I  said, '  the  name  I  love  best  in  all 
the  world.'  There  was  a  girl  in  the  currach  with  us — an 
islander — going  across  for  something  or  other.  She 
blushed  at  my  involuntary  speech.  It  appears  her  name 
i3  also  Brigid,  and  she  concluded  I  was  paying  her  an  in- 
direct compliment.  Poor  silly  creature  !  She  did  not 
understand  that  there  was  only  one  Brigid  in  the  universe 
for  me." 

He  nodded  his  head  knowingly  to  himself,  and  his 
smile  deepened. 

'  That  will  both  gratify  and  pique  her  " ;   he  mused, 
1  my  lady  has  more  than  a  fair  share  of  the  vanity  and 


THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS.  23 

curiosity  of  her  sex.  Kow  curious  she  will  be."  Then 
he  laughed  outright,  sealed  the  letter  with  a  heavy  blow 
of  his  hand,  and  blew  a  kiss  on  his  fingers  gaily  in  the 
direction  of  an  imaginary  Bedelia. 

Although  the  mellow  haze  of  autumn  had  come  to  veil 
the  grave  of  the  dead  summer,  John  Gilchrist  still  ling- 
ered upon  Inisgloir.  Somehow  he  could  not  comfortably 
face  the  idea  of  his  departure.  He  was  reasonably  happy 
— the  present  contented  him,  the  future — well,  why  cross 
one's  bridges  until  necessity  decrees.  So  he  dallied  with 
the  soft,  warm  wind  of  Brigid's  adoration,  and  preened 
his  vanity  on  the  pedestal  where  she  had  elevated  him. 
Occasionally  he  almost  convinced  himself  that  he  was  all 
she  believed.  If  anything  could  have  had  the  power  to 
make  him  the  ideal  she  fancied  him,  it  was  the  fidelity  of 
her  blind  devotion ;  but — and  here  the  truth  stung  him 
— the  daily  endeavour  to  appear  at  his  best  was  well-nigh 
more  than  he  could  bear.  At  times  he  did  not  know 
whether  to  curse  her  transparent  tenderness,  or  his  own 
hypocrisy. 

It  was  when  he  was  in  this  wavering  frame  of  mind 
that  one  morning  the  mail  brought  him  a  letter  which 
caused  him  to  knit  his  brows  and  bite  his  moustache  in  a 
manner  he  had  when  troubled.  Brigid  saw  this  with 
beating  heart,  and,  as  he  brooded  over  the  closely-written 
sheets,  she  went  about  her  household  duties  in  a  fever  of 
anxiety.  When  at  last  he  lifted  his  gaze  to  hers,  as  he 
rose  to  go  out  she  knew  intuitively  that  her  fears  were 
well  founded.     He  was  going  away. 

There  was  a  quiet  rock-sheltered  cove,  on  the  western 
side  of  the  island,  where  Gilchrist  often  went  to  read  and 
arrange  the  ballads  he  had  collected.  As  he  sat  there 
now,  staring  blindly  at  a  brassy  sea,  he  heard  Brigid's 


24:  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

light  step  bounding  from  boulder  to  boulder.     He  stood 
up  as  she  came  near  and  took  her  into  his  arms. 

"  You  have  hurried,  my  share  of  the  world,"  he  said, 
striking  her  flushed  cheeks  tenderly. 

'  There  is  always  hurry  on  me,  Mac  Giolla  Chriost, 
when  you  are  needing  me." 

"  And  I  need  you  now  Brigid,  a  mhuirnin  (my  darling), 
for  I  have  had  unwelcome  news." 

'  I  know  it,  Mac  Giolla  Chriost.  You  are  going 
away." 

She  tightened  the  clasp  of  her  arms  about  him,  and 
threw  back  her  ruddy  head  so  that  she  could  look  into 
his  eyes. 

"  You  are  going  away,  Mac  Giolla  Chriost — that  is  the 
news  you  have  for  me.  I  know  it :  I  have  felt  it  coming : 
I  have  seen  its  evil  shadow  in  my  dreams.  You  are 
going  back  to  your  own  world,  and  you  will  kiss  me  now 
and  promise  to  return.  But  will  yo  return,  Mac  Giolla 
Chriost?     Answer  me  that — answer  me." 

She  spoke  in  a  quiet  repressed  way  that  startled  him. 
He  had  bargained  for  tears  and  recriminations ;  but  not 
for  this  subdued  vehemence.     He  replied  soothingly  : 

"  I  shall  come  back,  girl  of  my  heart ;  never  doubt  but 
I  shall  come  back,  and  maybe  sooner  than  you  think.  I 
do  not  want  to  go ;  but  my  work  at  home  is  being  left 
undone  while  I  am  here,  and  the  fascination  of  your  tales 
and  songs  can  hardly  make  an  excuse  for  me.  And  you 
would  not  have  me  termed  an  idler,  now  would  you, 
Brigid,  my  dear?  " 

He  did  not  tell  her  that  the  letter  was  from  the  other 
woman — and  that  the  orders  for  his  return  were  peremp- 
tory ;  couched  in  the  tone  of  one  who  already  anticipated 
a  wife's  privileges.  In  that  instant  his  heart  fluctuated 
in  a  choice  between  the  gold  of  Bedelia's  coffers,  and  the 


THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS.  25 

living  gold  of  Brigid's  wind-blown  hair.  He  sighed, 
even  as  his  heart  set  the  two  in  the  balance,  remembering 
how  unequal  the  comparison  was,  and  that  his  bonds 
were  too  securely  wound  about  him  by  his  own  act  for  a 
loophole  of  escape.  Brigicl  watched  him  with  the  hungry 
intentness  of  one  who  sees  a  hope  trembling  on  unfolding 
wings. 

"  Now  would  you,  Brigid,"  he  repeated. 

She  unloosed  her  clasp  then,  and  lifted  his  hands  to  her 
bosom,  crushing  them  against  her  warm  young  body  in  a 
strong,  fierce  pressure. 

"  There,"  she  said,  '  it  is  my  heart  you  feel,  Mac 
Giolla  Chriost,  and  it  is  yours,  all  yours,  yours  and  none 
other's.  If  you  do  not  come  back  it  will  break,  it  will 
consume  of  its  own  fire — it  will  be  drowned  in  a  sea  of 
sorrow.  But  you  will  come  back.  Swear  it :  swear  it 
before  Christ  and  Mary  and  our  Blessed  Enda — swear 
that  you  will  not  leave  my  heart  to  break  or  burn  or 
drown." 

"  My  poor,  sweet,  frightened  love,"  he  cried,  drawing 
her  close  until  her  pale  cheek  touched  his  own.  Have  no 
fear.  I  swear  it.  I  shall  come  back.  You  will  find 
me  coming,  perhaps,  when  you  are  not  watching  or  think- 
ing of  me  at  all." 

He  smiled  into  her  troubled  eyes,  and  at  the  smile  her 
fortitude  gave  way.  A  shudder  stirred  her  from  head  to 
foot;  she  clung  to  him  wildly,  sobbing,  lamenting.  He 
said  no  word  further,  but  waited  until  the  storm  of  her 
grief  ceased  as  abruptly  as  it  had  begun. 

"  When  will  you  be  going,  Mac  Giolla  Chiiost?  "  she 
asked  at  length,  striving  for  control,  despite  the  tremb- 
ling eloquence  of  her  lips. 

'  This  very  day,  when  the  steamer  calls  again,"  he 
answered ;    "  give  me  the  parting  blessing  now    Brigid, 


26  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

my  dear,  beautiful  girl.     Say  it  bravely,  and  remember 
that  I  shall  return  in  a  little  while." 

She  said  it  bravely,  as  he  bade  her,  although  the  re- 
pression in  her  voice  told  how  hard  the  effort  was. 

"  To  the  White  Lamb  I  commit  you,  O  treasure, 
To  Mary,  who  turns  the  wheel  of  the  stars, 
To  Brigid,  that  her  mantle  may  cover  you 
In  the  dark,  in  the  light,  in  your  comings  and  goings. 
To  Patrick,  shepherd  of  the  fold, 
And  to  Colum,  the  Dove  of  Christ's  house, 
I  commit  you  with  my  prayers,  my  love,  and  my  tears." 

Then  Gilchrist,  with  one  last  kiss,  turned  and  left  her. 

It  was  a  chance  word  that,  shortly  after  Gilchrist's  de- 
parture, aroused  the  serpent  of  jealousy  in  Peadar  Ban. 
The  men  were  grouped  at  Eamon's  Corner  in  the  Sep- 
tember dusk  for  their  accustomed  gossip ;  the  glow  of 
their  pipes  made  small  points  of  light  in  the  gloom  ; 
their  voluble  Gaelic  speech  flowed  in  a  stream  of  friendly 
argument  over  this  and  that.  Only  Barty  Dall,  Blind 
Barty,  the  fiddler,  sat  silent,  contrary  to  his  usual  wont. 

"  Now,  why  is  there  no  talk  from  you,  Barty  ?  "  quer- 
ied Ulic  Mor,  a  big  brown  cattle-dealer  from  the  South 
Island.     "  What  are  you  thinking  of?  " 

"  It  is  of  a  woman  I  am  thinking,"  replied  the  blind 
man. 

"  Like  enough  !  '  Their  deep  laughter  rang  out  sud- 
denly, but  there  was  no  answering  smile  on  Barty's  old 
white  face. 

"  Yes,  of  a  woman,"  he  repeated.  "  It  is  sad  to  hear 
the  young  go  past  with  lagging  footsteps  and  a  sigh. 
Brighid  Ni  Bhriain  went  by  to-day  slowly,  and  I  heard 
the  dropping  of  her  tears.     There  has  been  no  gladness 


THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS.  27 

in   her   heart   since  the   strange   gentleman,  Mac  Giolla 
Chriost,  wont  from  Inisgloir." 

Every  eye  fastened  in  consternation  upon  Peadar  Ban. 
He  was  gazing  at  the  old  man,  petrified,  his  hands 
clenched,  his  teeth  set.  Then  he  turned  his  bewildered 
face  to  the  watchers.  They  looked  at  him  blankly,  with- 
out a  word. 

"There  is  no  truth  in  it,"  he  said,  stupidly.  The  re- 
mark was  half  an  interrogation.     No  one  answered. 

"  There  is  no  truth  in  it,"  he  continued,  in  a  strangled 
voice,  rising  and  clutching  at  his  throat  with  one  hand. 
"  No  truth  in  it  at  all,  God,  He  sees.  He  shook  the 
other  hand  at  the  star-flecked  sky  in  denial  to  God  and 
man.  What  was  this  sudden  disaster — did  he  dream, 
was  he  awake  at  all  ?  The  silence  of  his  comrades  gave 
him  the  feeling  of  being  alone  in  space,  cut  adrift  from 
love  and  hope  and  the  warm  clasp  of  friendship.  Dazed 
and  ashamed  to  the  heart,  he  stood  searching  their 
dimly-seen  faces  for  some  sign  that  the  ominous  sentences 
had  rung  only  in  his  imagination.  Still  tho  silence  re- 
mained unbroken,  save  for  the  long-drawn  wail  of  belated 
sea-birds  faring  homeward,  and  the  ceaseless  bcom  of  the 
now  darkening  breakers  against  the  clifTs.  "  Oh  God  !  ' 
he  cried  frantically  and  abruptly,  "  Oh  God !  "  Then, 
throwing  a  farewell  gesture  round  the  staring  circle,  he 
hurriedly  disappeared  into  the  shadows. 

lie  went  straight  to  Brigid.  When  he  left  her  the 
blight  of  a  love  thrust  back  upon  itself  lay  ovei  him,  and 
his  heart  quivered — a  tortured  thing — in  a  furnace  of 
pain. 

Work.  That  was  the  panacea  heaven  had  generously 
granted  him  for  his  misery.  He  sent  his  earnest  gratitude 
up  night  and  morning  to  the  King  of  Glory  for  the  bless- 
ing of  a  strong  untiring  body,  which  knew  not  fatigue. 


28  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

The  fishing  prospered  more  than  ever  with  him,  and  his 
little  bit  of  land  bore  evidence  of  his  unceasing  industry. 
A  whisper  went  round  the  island  that  Peadar  Ban  must 
surely  be  making  ready  for  a  wife.  The  name  of  Brighid 
Ni  Bhriain  was  never  mentioned  now  in  connection  with 
him — but  what  other  girl  could  it  be?  That  was  the 
puzzle.  He  had  sat  as  a  suitor  at  no  other  man's  hearth 
during  the  winter  months,  nor  had  he  left  the  island  to 
seek  a  stranger.  The  handsomest  of  all  the  young  men 
of  Inisgloir,  and  the  best-gathered.  Surely  he  did  not 
mean  to  live  and  die  a  bachelor  ? 

Meanwhile,  the  object  of  their  speculations,  toiling 
strenuously  to  lull  torturing  memories,  was  not  blind  to 
the  change  taking  place  in  Brigid.  The  girl  had  grown 
subdued  and  listless ;  her  blue  eyes  gleamed  hollowly  out 
of  a  face  that  had  lost  its  lovely  curves,  and  her  lips  had 
the  piteous  droop  of  stifled  sighs.  Curses,  the  stronger 
for  being  silent,  wailed  up  in  Peadar's  heart  against  Gil- 
christ. "  Can  I  endure  to  watch  her  suffer — I,  who 
would  give  my  life  for  her  sake?  What  good  is  my 
strength  and  my  courage  since  it  cannot  spare  her  this 
woe?"  Question  after  question  glided  through  his  brain, 
leaving  nothing  behind  save  a  baffling  sense  of  impo- 
tence. He  beat  helplessly  against  the  hemming  walls  of 
difficulty,  to  retreat  again  and  again,  dejected  and  dis- 
mayed. 

At  last  a  light  dawned  in  the  chaos  of  his  mind.  What 

if  Gilchrist  had  no  intention  of  returning  at  any  time? 
What   if   he   had   merely   given   the  promise   to   soothe 

Brigid  at  parting  ?     She  firmly  believed  he  would  return, 

and  the  longing  was  consuming  her  very  existence.      If 

he  had  forgotten  her,  or  dwelt  upon  the  recollection  of 

his  summer  at  Inisgloir  as  a  pleasant  interlude  in  a  busy 

barrister's  existence,  would  it  not  be  possible  to  have  the 


THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS.  29 

intimation  conveyed,  some  way  or  other,  to  the  girl,  that 
she  might  at  least  learn  the  truth,  and  after  a  time  come 
to  forget?  Yet,  how  could  the  knowledge  be  imparted 
to  her?  Gilchrist  had  sent  neither  message  nor  sign 
since  his  departure,  but  the  schoolmaster  had  his  address 
in  B'la  'Cliath,  and  Peadar  could  easily  obtain  it.  But 
then,  how  was  he,  with  his  imperfect  English,  to  write 
down  all  he  had  to  say  to  Mac  Giolla  Chriost  ?  He  had 
never  been  taught  to  write  in  the  Gaelic,  which  was  his 
native  speech,  and  in  which  his  thoughts  moved  most 
freely,  lie  could  fancy  the  supercilious  air  of  the  other 
when  unfolding  and  perusing  the  ill-spelt,  ill-written 
appeal  to  his  honour  from  his  humble  rival.  No,  no; 
that  would  never  do ;  some  other  way  must  be  found. 

When  the  daring  thought  sprang  into  being,  he  shook 
his  head  in  horrified  dissent.  Oh,  for  sure  it  would  not 
be  possible  !  What !  go,  go  all  the  way  to  B'la  'Cliath 
and  ask  Mac  Giolla  Chriost  to  come  again  to  Inisgloir 
and  bring  back  the  happy  shine  to  Brigid's  eyes,  or,  if 
that  could  not  be,  to  confess  that  he  had  never  cared  for 
her,  that  he  had  merely  amused  himself,  as  any  young 
man  of  the  world  might,  with  a  pretty  girl.  If  he, 
Peadar  Ban,  dared  take  such  a  liberty,  how  Mac  Giolla 
Chriost  would  smile  and  shrug  his  shoulders  at  a 
peasant's  ignorance  of  a  gentleman's  feelings.  It  would 
be  terrible  to  have  those  disdainful  eyes  moving  slowly 
over  one  from  head  to  foot.  Ah  no,  that  way  would  not 
be  wise — it  would  do  more  harm  than  good,  maybe — and 
yet,  and  yet — 

What  other  way  was  there  but  this — this  desperate 
and  awkward  one?  And  Brigid  would  certainly  wither 
away  unless  her  starved  heart  was  satisfied.  Perhaps  if 
Mac  Giolla  Chriost  heard  how  thin  and  white  she  had  be- 
come  of  late,   with   the   blue-black   shadows   under  her 


^0  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

tired  eyes,  he  would  be  sorry.  Yes,  God  and  Mary  might 
touch  him  with  pity,  so  that  he  would  do  this  merciful 
thing,  if  Peadar  could  only  find  the  right  words  to  use 
when  he  pleaded  Brigid's  cause  and  his  own.  Surely, 
he  would  not  refuse  to  come,  or  if  he  did,  and  gave  no 
satisfactory  explanation,  well,  there  might  be  some  other 
alternative  offered  him  less  welcome  than  a  few  hours' 
journey,  or  the  trifling  labour  of  writing  a  letter  to 
Brigid  of  Inisgloir. 

Gilchrist  turned  round  lazily  as  the  door  of  his  study 
opened.  His  eyes  first  contracted  at  the  sight  of  the 
stranger  on  his  threshold,  then  widened  in  astonished  re- 
cognition.   He  sprang  to  his  feet  with  hand  outstretched. 

"  For  sure  this  is  the  great  surprise,  Peadar  Ban." 
He  spoke  in  Gaelic.  "  What  has  brought  you  to  B'la 
'Cliath?  Have  you  been  over  to  sell  your  cattle,  and 
taken  a  fancy  to  see  the  city  ?  Well,  we  must  give  you  a 
good  time  now  that  you  are  here." 

The  islander  ignored  the  welcoming  hand.  He  closed 
the  door  behind  him  and  placed  his  back  against  it. 

"  I  will  be  for  taking  none  of  your  welcome  now,  Mac 
Giolla  Chriost,"  he  said,  "  and  maybe  you  will  not  be  for 
offering  it  when  you  hear  what  I  am  come  to  say." 

Gilchrist  stared  at  him.  "  What  is  wrong  with  you, 
man  1  "  he  cried.  "  Come  and  sit  down.  Tell  me  all 
about  Inisgloir,  and  Dara  and  Sibeal — and  Brigid." 

"  It  is  to  tell  you  about  Brigid  that  1  am  here,  gentle- 
man 1  ". 

"  Has  anything  happened  her  ?  Is  she  ill  ?  Is  she 
dead?  "     The  questions  came  hurriedly. 

Peadar  Ban  gazed  down  from  his  great  height  into  the 
blanched  face. 

"  No,   she  is   not   dead,  but  she   will  die,   Mac  Giolla 


TIIL    PASSIONATE    HEARTS.  31 

Chriost,  and  her  death  will  bo  at  your  door  unless  you 
spare  her." 

"IV 

"  Yes,  you."  Then,  man  to  man,  Peadar  told  the 
other  the  cause  of  his  coming,  lie  found,  thanks  to  God 
and  Mary,  whom  he  had  invoked,  the  fitting  words,  and 
they  rushed  in  a  torrent  from  his  over-charged  heart. 

After  the  first  start  of  surprise  his  listener  did  not  stir, 
but  sat  with  downcast  lids  and  flusned  countenance. 
When  the  islander  had  ceased,  he  raised  his  head. 

"  Is  this  all  you  have  to  say  1  "  he  asked  quietly. 

"  All,  Mac  Giolla  Chriost,  except,  maybe,  one  other 
thing." 

Gilchrist  rose  and  walked  to  a  bookcase  at  the  end  of 
the  room.  He  picked  out  a  book  at  random,  and  stood 
turning  over  the  leaves  with  fingers  that  trembled. 

"  I  have  only  one  answer  to  give  you, "  he  said,  and  had 
the  grace  not  to  lift  his  eyes.  "  I  cannot  and  will  not  go. 
Your  suggestion  is  preposterous.  It  is  insulting.  I 
never  injured  the  girl.  I  admired  her  beauty,  without 
doubt,  and  what  harm  is  there  in  that?  Most  women 
are  willing  enough  to  be  admired." 

"  Brigid  was  never  that  sort,  gentleman,  and  you  know 
it." 

"  She  is  a  woman." 

"  Will  you  write  to  her,  then,  and  say  what  you  have 
just  said  to  me?  " 

"  No,  I  shall  not  write." 

"  Then  I  shall  be  telling  you  the  other  thing.  If  you 
do  not  come,  or  write,  Mac  Giolla  Chriost,  it  is  killing 
you  I  will  bo." 

On  Gilchrist's  lips  dawned  the  ghost  of  a  smile  as  he 
looked  around  the  well-appointed,  cheerful  room,  in 
which  this  tragical  utterance  seemed  so  out  of  place,  and 


32  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

then  glanced  at  his  visitor.  But  the  glance  assured  him 
that  the  threat  was  no  idle  one.  Peadar  still  stood 
against  the  door,  his  fair  head  leaned  back,  and  the  firm, 
handsome  outline  of  his  features  thrown  up  like  a  bas- 
relief  from  the  wine-dark  polished  wood.  There  was  no 
weakness  in  that  face.  Gilchrist  tossed  the  book  away, 
and  stood  biting  his  moustache  silently  and  viciously. 

"  It  is  true,  Mac  Giolla  Chriost,"  repeated  Peadar, 
gravely.     "  I  mean  it." 

He  spread  out  his  freckled,  shapely  hands. 

"  My  God,  do  you  know  what  you  are  saying?  "  cried 
Gilchrist,  turning  like  an  animal  at  bay.  "  You  would 
kill  me  ?  What  good  would  that  do  Brigid  ?  And  what 
good  would  my  going  to  Inisgloir  do  her,  in  any  case, 
since  I  am  to  be  married  within  the  month  ?  " 

"  Married  ?  "     Peadar  gasped  the  word,  "  married  ?  " 

"  Yes,  married.  Go  back  and  break  the  news  to 
Brigid.  She  will  forget  me  readily  enough  then,  I 
warrant." 

The  blood  rushed  madly  into  Peadar's  face,  dyeing  it 
from  the  tanned  neck  to  the  roots  of  his  hair.  "  You 
will  come  and  tell  her  with  your  own  lips,"  he  said, 
sternly.  "  She  would  not  believe  otherwise — not  if  all 
the  world  was  your  messenger." 

"  Have  done  with  this  nonsense,"  Gilchrist  exclaimed 
angrily.  "  Am  I  to  suffer  your  insolence  in  my  own 
house  ?  " 

He  approached  the  door  to  open  it,  but  Peadar 
dropped  his  hand  quickly  to  the  knob. 

"No,  Mac  Giolla  Chriost,  you  must  come  with  me; 
or,  as  I  have  said,  I  will  be  killing  you.  ' 

Anger,  shame,  helplessness,  drew  tears  almost  to  Gil- 
christ's eyes.  He  stood  before  the  young  islander  like  a 
prisoner  in  the  presence  of  a  judge,  seeing  no  avenue  of 


THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS.  33 

escape,  but  that  one  that  was  objectionable  to  every  fibre 
of  his  pride.  It  meant  humiliation,  deep  and  lasting, 
and  doubly  painful  in  that  a  woman,  who  had  esteemed 
and  loved  him,  must  know  him  at  last  for  the  man  he 
really  was. 

'  It  is  simply  ridiculous,"  he  burst  forth  again  vehem- 
ently, '  this  melodrama.  In  a  story  it  might  be  all 
right,  but  in  real  life,  and  with  these  surroundings,  it  is 
laughable."  The  jarring  nervousness  of  his  merriment 
brought  a  heavy  frown  to  Peadars  brow. 

You  forget,  Mac  Giolla  Chriost,  the  reason  of  my 
coming  here;  not  to  amuse  myself,  or  you,  but  for 
Brigid's  sake." 

"  For  Brigid's  sake."  Suddenly  across  Gilchrist's 
memory  flashed  the  picture  of  the  girl  as  he  had  first  be- 
held her  that  summer  afternoon.  The  purple  eyes  were 
then  unclouded,  grief  had  not  carved  furrows  on  the 
round  young  cheeks.  Poor,  beautiful  Brigid.  She  had 
loved  him  well,  and  he?  God  help  him.  What  was  this 
pain,  as  of  a  knife  sheathing  in  his  heart?  Had  she 
been  able  to  wound  him  after  all? — else  why  should  he 
dread  the  scorn  that  would  reward  the  stoiy  he  must  tell 
her — although  he  had  blindly  imagined  that  his  wary 
wings  had  kept  safely  beyond  the  reach  of  the  flame.  He 
had  cared  for  her — he  could  not  deny  it — and  out  of  pity 
— nay,  was  not  pity  akin  to  love  ? — he  would  go  and  see 
her  idol  of  him  shattered  at  his  feet.  He  was  not  afraid 
of  those  brawny  arms  of  Peadar  Ban — even  were  they 
around  his  throat — there  was  something  worse  than  such 
a  death ;  it  was  to  see  love  and  trust  killed  in  another's 
soul.  The  shudder  and  chill  that  ran  through  him  at 
the  thought  were  an  actual  agony.  It  was  his  better  self 
in  the  ascendant  once  more.  That  instant  he  made  up 
his  mind  to  go  through  the  ordeal  without  flinching. 


34  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

"  When  did  you  intend  returning  ?  "  he  inquired  in  a 
low  voice,  covering  his  face  with  one  hand  wearily. 

"  By  the  night  train,"  answered  Peadar.  "It  is  six 
o'clock  the  steamer  will  be  leaving :  at  the  turn  of  the 
tide." 

"  Then  we  have  little  time  to  spare,"  replied  Gilchrist. 
He  went  into  his  bedroom  and  came  out  again,  bearing 
a  small  travelling  bag. 

"  I  want  to  say,"  he  began  abruptly,  "  that  I  am  not 
taking  this  step  through,  fear  of  your  threats.  .  I  am 
going  for — well,  call  it  justice's  sake,  and  because — be- 
cause— Oh,  man,  I  know  now  why  you  are  called  the 
Passionate  Hearts  !  It  is  a  true  name.  You  are  deadly 
■ — jevery  one  of  you — for  all  your  calm  and  kindly  ways. 
Brigid,  too — she  will  never  forgive  me;  I  feel  it.  It  is 
she  I  fear — not  you.  I  have  gone  through  worse  than 
death  since  you  entered  this  room,  through  shame,  and 
regret,  and  bitter  humiliation.  And  now  I  go  to  greater 
abasement — perhaps,  God  knows — to  the  end  of  all 
things.  The  Passionate  Hearts!  Oh  why,  in  my  fool- 
ishness, did  I  play  with  leaping  fire  ? 


When  Brigid  saw  him  entering  the  doorway  once 
again,  she  rose  from  her  chair,  and  stood  grasping  it 
tightly,  for  her  limbs  had  grown  weak,  and  were  like  to 
fail  her.  Sibeal's  shrill  volley  of  welcome  rang  in  her 
ears  without  meaning,  and  she  could  not  comprehend  the 
greetings  uttered  in  her  father's  deep  accents.  Oh, 
something  wonderful  had  occurred,  something  that  made 
her  heart  bound  and  grow  glad  as  in  the  old  days.  What 
was  it?  Who  was  speaking  now?  Surely  that  was  a 
dear  and  long-desired  voice?  She  was  beginning  to 
comprehend  at  last. 


THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS.  35 

It  was  Gilchrist  who  was  speaking.  He  had  seated 
himself  in  the  familiar  settle-corner,  and  was  lighting  a 
cigar,  just  as  she  had  seen  him  doing  many  and  many  a 
time  before. 

"  Yes,"  he  was  saying.  "  I  met  Peadar  Ban  beyond 
there  unexpectedly,  and  thought  I  would  take  advantage 
of  the  opportunity  to  see  you  all  before  I  became  tied 
down  for  life."  He  smiled  significantly,  took  out  his 
cigar,  and  scrutinised  the  lighted  point. 

"  Tied  down  for  life,"  echoed  Sibeal.  "  Now,  Mac 
Giolla  Chriost,  what  may  that  mean  ?  " 

"  It  means  that  I  am  nearing  my  marriage  day,  and  I 
came  across  to  hear  you  put  the  good  wish  on  me,  O 
woman  of  the  house  !  " 

'*  Listen  to  that  now !  "  Husband  and  wife  laughed 
sympathetically,  turning  to  each  other.  "  It  is  a  wife  he 
is  going  to  take." 

Yes,  a  wife,  Sibeal,  no  less.  It  is  an  old  story  now. 
She  is  a  rich  girl  and  handsome,  and  1  may  tell  you  it  is 
she  who  was  the  impatient  woman  because  I  spent  so 
much  of  the  summer  away  from  her  on  Inisgloir.  But  I 
was  so  enchanted  with  your  island,  and  its  charming 
legends  and  songs,  that  I  really  think  " — his  attempt  at 
facetiousness  was  a  miserable  failure — "  1  would  have 
been  here  yet  only  for  the  letter  she  sent  me  that  last 
day,  ordering — yes,ordering — my  return  at  once.  It  was 
her  right,  you  see — and  I  obeyed,  as  I  should  ' 

"  Well,  Mac  Giolla  Chriost,  that  is  what  happens  to 
most  of  us,  and  I  put  the  good  wish  upon  you  from  my 
heart,"  said  Dara,  almost  crushing  the  young  man's  hand 
in  his. 

"  And  I  put  the  good  wish  on  you,  too,  gentleman," 
said  motherly  Sibeal,  her  pleasant  rosy  face  beaming 
with  interest  at  the  news,  "  that  the  King  of  Glory  may 


36  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

shower  blessings  aiid  prosperity  on  your  life  and  hers, 
and  make  your  path  easy  to  heaven. ;; 

"  Is  there  no  good  wish  for  me  with  you,  Brigid  ?  ' 

She  opened  her  lips  to  speak,  but  no  sound  issued.  Her 
eyes  glittered,  and  on  her  cheeks  two  bright  red  spots 
burned  feverishly. 

"  Ah,  then,  Brigid,  am  I  to  go  away  without  the  wish 
from  you  ?  " 

All  at  once  some  vital  force  seemed  to  become  galvan- 
ised into  action  in  her  rigid  body.  She  took  a  step 
nearer  him,  glowing  with  life  from  head  to  foot,  radiant, 
beautiful  as  he  had  never  seen  her  even  in  her  most  beau- 
tiful moments. 

"  Yes,  Mac  Giolla  Chriost,"  her  voice  vibrated  through 
the  kitchen,  clear,  strong,  relentless,  "  I  put  the  good 
wish  on  you — that  the  woman  who  will  be  your  wife  shall 
ever  know  you  for  the  man  you  are." 

As  Gilchrist  turned  to  go  from  her  scornful  eyes,  and 
Peadars stern  aloofness,  his  stripjDed  soul  shivered.  The 
time  might  come  when  the  recollection  of  this  night's 
virtue  would  be  its  own  reward,  but  now,  as  he  stepped 
down  from  the  pillory  of  self-condemnation,  the  virtue  of 
his  action  was  the  last  thing  he  thought  of.  He  only 
knew  that  the  world  was  cold  and  lonely,  and  that  he 
was  like  a  solitary  reed  shaken  too  cruelly  by  the  wind  of 
his  destiny. 

On  a  night  in  the  early  winter,  some  months  after 
Brigid's  marriage  to  Peadar  Ban,  a  fierce  gale  arose — 
the  fiercest  that  had  been  known  in  the  island  for  many 
years.  All  day  the  sun  had  hung  low,  blood-red,  and 
awesome,  with  wisps  of  clouds  floating  away  from  it  like 
torn   fires.     It   was   an    unmistakeable   sign    of   coming 


THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 


37 


danger,  and  the  islanders,  seeing  it,  one  and  all  crossed 
themselves  piously,  "  May  God  put  his  girdle  of  safety 
round  all  wanderers  on  the  ocean,"  they  prayed  softly. 

The  dark  hours,  full  of  wild  sounds  of  sea  and  wind, 
passed  over  them  without  sleep.  Accustomed  as  they 
were  to  violent  storms,  through  which  they  lay  undis- 
turbed and  dreamless,  on  this  occasion  some  premonition 
of  disaster  kept  them  awake,  except  the  very  young,  who 
knew  not  fear. 

It  was  near  the  breaking  of  dawn  when  a  shrill  whistle 
sounded  above  the  storm. 

"■  A  steamer !  She  has  struck  on  Carrigdubh  !  "  was 
the  cry  that  went  from  mouth  to  mouth.  Then  every 
man  made  ready  to  do  his  part,  if  needful.  They  came 
together  on  the  western  shore,  where  the  shrill  appeal 
rang  clearest,  peering  seaward  into  the  blackness  through 
the  lashing  spray. 

"  It  is  on  Carrigdubh  she  is  for  sure,"  said  one.  "  She 
must  be  the  big  steamer  from  Deny  gone  out  of  her 
course.  There  will  be  hundreds  on  board ;  and  maybe 
drowning,  with  no  one  to  help.  Who  will  got  The  risk 
is  great,  but " 

"  I  will  go,"  said  Peadar  Ban.  Other  voices  gave  the 
same  response,  and  speedily  into  the  restless,  mad  whirl 
of  foam  the  currachs  were  launched.  The  watching 
women  on  the  beach  made  no  lamentations  as  they  saw 
them  depart;  they  were  the  wives  and  daughters  of 
fishermen,  and  knew  full  well  what  meant  the  summons 
of  the  sea. 

Peadar  moved  off,  straining  every  muscle  against  the 
shore-sweep  of  the  blast.  He  was  alone  in  his  boat,  for 
ahusre  wave  had  lifted  it  out  of  reach  before  his  comraoV 
could  leap  aboard.  He  could  perceive  nothing  in  the 
obscurity;  but  the  insistent  scream  of  the  whistle  rang 


38  THE    PASSIONATE    HEAETS. 

out  on  his  left,  and  lie  headed  towards  the  sound.  After 
a  time  he  heard  what  seemed  the  beating  of  the  steamer's 
screw,  as  it  swished  uselessly  through  the  water.  He 
dared  not  go  nearer;  it  would  be  certain  death.  His 
boat  was  tossed  hither  and  thither  like  a  worthless 
thing;  the  foam  blinded  him.  He  could  only  wait 
there,  baffling  death,  until  the  dawn  came. 

It  came  at  last,  in  pale  streaks  of  grayness.  He  could 
see  now  a  few  yards  on  either  side  of  him.  A  log  went 
drifting  by  in  the  trough  of  a  wave.  Something  else  rose 
on  the  crest  of  the  following  one,  was  it,  too,  a  log?  He 
shipped  his  oars,  put  out  his  hand  as  it  went  by,  and 
caught  it.     Another  hand  clutched  his  tightly. 

"  He  is  alive !  "  Peadar's  heart  gave  a  big  leap  as  he 
drew  the  drowning  body  nearer.  He  reached  over  and 
slipped  his  disengaged  arm  under  that  of  the  other,  care- 
fully balancing  the  currach  by  thrusting  his  feet  wide 
apart.  He  had  almost  dragged  his  burden  over  the  side 
before  he  saw  the  face,  half-veiled  by  its  dripping  hair. 
He  bent  closer,  for  an  instant,  in  horrified  recognition ; 
then  withdrew  his  arms  with  a  cry. 

"  Mac  Giolla  Chriost !  " 

The  other  had  grasped  the  side  as  Peadar  loosed  his 
grip,  and  clung  there,  swaying  helplessly  in  the  rush  of 
hurrying  waves.  The  white  crests  jerked  him  upward 
with  the  currach,  beat  the  breath  almost  out  of  him,  tore 
at  those  desperate  fingers  holding  to  life.  Every  second 
it  seemed  as  if  he  must  disappear  into  a  great,  unending 
gulf.  Peadar  watched  him  broodingly;  his  whole  mind 
in  a  tumult  of  indecision.  Here  was  his  enemy,  the  man 
who  had  stolen  Brigid's  heart  from  him,  who  stood  be- 
tween them  even  yet.  Let  him  drown.  He  could  do  no 
further  harm  then ;  he  would  be  spindrift  of  the  ocean, 
endlessly  sliding  from  peace  to  turbulence,  from  turbu- 


THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS.  39 

lence  to  peace,  in  the  calm  world  of  under-waters,  or  on 
the  peaks  of  storm-whipped  billows.    Yes,  let  him  drown. 

The  brine-scourged  eyes  opened  and  gazed  at  him  en- 
treatingly,  then  closed  again  tiredly. 

"  Where  is  your  wife  ?  "  cried  Peadar  hoarsely,  bending 
his  mouth  down  to  Gilchrist's  ear.     "  Was  she  on  board  ?" 

"  No,  we  go  different  ways/'     The  remoteness  in  the 
husky  whisper  hinted  at  death. 

The  islander  had  dropped  his  hands  again  on  the 
clinging  hands.  Would  he  obey  his  first  revengeful  im- 
pulse and  deny  life  to  this  man  who  had  wronged  him? 
He  would  be  a  murderer  then,  yes,  that  was  the  word. 
How  Brigid  would  shrink  from  him  if  she  knew.  She 
had  loved  Gilchrist — she  still  loved  him,  foi  her  heart 
had  never  opened  to  the  knocking  of  Peadar's  devotion. 
If  he  brought  Gilchrist  to  her  safely  would  the  sad,  un- 
familiar Brigid  disappear,  and  the  song  return  to  her 
lips?  Gilchrist  had  once  done  a  good  deed — a  hard 
thing  in  the  doing — for  Brigid's  sake.  Could,  or  would 
he,  too,  overcome  this  temptation — for  the  same  dear 
sake? 

With  great  difficulty,  straining  his  strength  to  the  ut- 
most, he  drew  the  limp  form  into  the  boat.  Gilchrist 
was  almost  unconscious  by  this  time,  and  lay  huddled  up 
where  Peadar  had  placed  him.  A  thick  rope,  to  which 
usually  the  clock  chuadhai — the  anchor — was  attached, 
was  coiled  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  one  end  fastened  to 
the  bow.  Peadar  now  gave  a  twist  of  it  round  Gilchrist's 
waist,  tying  it  as  tightly  as  he  could  with  his  benumbed 
fingers. 

1  Should  we  be  upset  that  will  keep  him  afloat,"  he 
murmured,  as  he  tried  to  make  the  position  of  the  sense- 
less man  easier.  One  strong  sweep  of  the  right  oar  sent 
the  prow  of  the  currach  shoreward  ;   but,  in  the  act  of 


40  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

turning  completely  round,  an  enormous,  unbroken  wave 
— a  very  wall  of  deadly  water — struck  her  full  on  the 
side.  She  filled  to  the  brim,  and  keeled  over,  while  the 
mighty  wave  went  on  its  way. 

Brigid  waited  restlessly  on  the  shore  for  the  reappear- 
ance of  her  husband.  The  cliffs  rose  tall  and  gloomy 
behind  her,  each  scarp  darkly  outlined  against  the  lesser 
dark  of  the  dawning.  The  salt  spray  drenched  her,  the 
fierce  wind  buffeted  her,  so  that  she  could  scarcely  keep 
her  footing  on  the  slippery  rocks  of  the  little  cove  where 
she  had  taken  her  stand,  away  from  the  rest  of  the 
women.  This  cove  was  where  Peadar  usually  landed,  as 
it  lay  below  their  home,  and  she  felt  instinctively  that 
here  he  would  strive  to  put  in  on  his  return. 

"  Oh,  sorrow  of  sorrows  !  What  if  he  never  returned  ! 
What  if  he  went  down  to  death  not  understanding — un- 
knowing that  her  coldness  and  silence  was  but  the  an- 
guish of  an  ever-present  shame,  because  he  had  seen  her 
pride  trodden  under  the  feet  of  the  man  who  had  found 
her  but  too  credulous.  It  was  shame  that  stilled  her 
singing — it  was  shame  that  had  built  this  barrier  of  re- 
serve between  them.  Oh,  why  had  she  been  so  senseless 
a  woman?  Why  had  she  not  opened  her  heart  to  the 
faithful  heart  that  had  chosen  her  for  its  star?  "  The 
fragrance  of  Peadar's  love  lingered  about  her  there  in 
the  dark,  with  a  sweetness  that  hurt  her,  until  the  tardy 
tears  obscured  her  vision,  and  she  pushed  back  the  ruddy 
hair  from  her  blinded  eyes. 

A  large  object,  riding  on  a  high  incoming  breaker,  at- 
tracted her  attention.  She  waded  into  the  surf,  up  to 
her  waist,  to  meet  it.  As  it  approached  she  saw  it  was 
an  upturned  currach. 

"  Mother  of  Mercy,  grant  it  be  not  his,"  she  sobbed, 
struggling  with  the  forceful  surge.     Something  smaller 


THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS.  41 

bobbed  up  and  down  in  the  wake  of  the  eurrach;  some- 
thing on  which  her  eyes  concentrated  in  dread.  The 
breaker  crashed  in  upon  her,  and  threw  her  back  breath- 
less on  the  shore  among  the  shingle. 

She  rose,  dazed,  and  crawled  over  to  where  the  eurrach 
lay,  half  in,  half  out  of  the  wTater.  She  stumbled  over 
something  else  hurled  up  among  the  little  pools.  With 
a  cry  she  fell  upon  her  knees.  Who  were  these  two 
locked  in  each  other's  arms?  She  bent  lower,  and 
turned  their  faces  up  to  the  light. 

"  Merciful  God  !  "  her  misery  rang  above  the  shriek  of 
storm  and  boom  of  billows,  as  she  saw  what  the  sea  had 
swept  to  her  feet — "  Merciful  God  !  " 

Very  gently,  and  trembling  in  every  limb,  she  un- 
wound Peadar's  arms  from  Gilchrist.  Both  were  sense- 
less, and  on  Peadar's  forehead  was  a  jagged  cut  where 
some  wreckage  had  struck  him.  Her  hand  groped  inside 
his  vest  until  she  found  a  slight  stir  at  his  heart.  "  He 
has  come  back  to  me,"  she  cried  aloud,  an  indescribable 
flutter  of  joy  tingling  through  every  nerve. 

There  was  a  slight  tug  at  her  dress,  and  she  twisted 
round  to  see  Gilchrist's  weak  hand  groping  at  the  folds. 
He  was  gazing  up  at  her  with  filmy,  unseeing  eyes.  She 
drew  her  skirt  away  impatiently,  oblivious  of  his  neces- 
sity, heeding  or  thinking  of  naught  save  tho  passive 
figure  of  her  husband. 

Slowly  and  tenderly  she  strove  to  raise  him  until  his 
fair  head  rested  on  her  shoulder ;  then,  thanking  heaven 
for  her  splendid  strength,  she  drew  his  arms  around  her 
neck  and  shifted  her  position  until  his  weight  rested  on 
her  back.  With  teeth  set,  face  gleaming  sharp  in  her 
sore  stress,  she  crept  from  her  knees  to  her  feet,  holding 
to  the  slimy  boulders.  Cautiously  and  steadily,  pantin 
until  her  heart  seemed  like  to  burst  in  two,  she  made  her 


IT 

b 


42 


THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 


way  up  the  rocky  slope  to  her  cabin,  and  laid  her  beloved 
burden  on  the  bed. 

And  down  on  the  shingly  beach,  towards  which  she 
cast  not  one  backward  glance,  the  other  lay  helpless, 
watching  with  fascinated  eyes,  growing  dimmer  every 
moment,  for  the  Ninth  Wave — the  drowning  wave — that 
would  sweep  him  away  into  eternity. 


CDe  n^n  of  tbe  music 


THE  MEN  OF  THE  MUSIC. 


I  HEARD  it  first  oue  August  morning,  as  I  lay  close 
to  the  thatch  in  the  gable-room  of  the  little  coun- 
try hotel  where  I  had  come  to  spend  my  fortnight's 
holidays.  There  was  a  sudden  shock  to  my  dreaming — ■ 
my  love's  smiling  face  disappeared  into  soft  shadows,  and 
I  wakened  to  a  droning  whirr  of  melody  that  further 
dazed  my  half-slumbering  senses.  For  a  moment  I  did 
not  realize  that  the  music  was  aught  but  imaginary ; 
then,  as  I  heard  it  growing  louder  and  louder,  I  sprang 
out  of  bed  to  discover  the  cause.  A  thick  curtain  of  ivy 
almost  concealed  the  four-paned  window,  which  moved 
inwards  on  a  hinge  and  was  open  owing  to  the  heat. 
Through  this  curtain  I  thrust  my  head  and  saw,  coining 
down  the  only  hilly  street  of  the  village,  two  old  men — 
two  stooped  and  slender  old  men — whose  resemblance  to 
each  other  astonished  me.  It  was  as  exact  a  resemblance 
as  if  one  of  them  was  gazing  into  a  mirror.  They  were 
clad  in  the  ordinary  homespun  clothes  of  the  peasant; 
each  wore  a  cloth  cap  with  ears  drawn  close  on  his  grey 
head,  and  round  each  wrinkled  neck  was  tied  a  blue- 
spotted  cotton  handkerchief.  Their  faces  were  thin  but 
ruddy ;  their  features  aquiline  ;  their  eyes  a  bright  blue- 
grey.  As  they  marched  in  steady  step  together,  they 
kept  playing  a  sad,  tender,  crooning  air,  which  I  have 
since  learned  to  call  "An  Bundn  Buidhe  " — "  The  Yellow 
bittern."  The  old  man  nearest  me  played  upon  a  fideog 
or  whistle,   the  other  had   his  lips   curved   around  the 


46  THE   PASSIONATE   HEARTS. 

mouthpiece  of  a  flute — or,  as  it  is  called  in  the  Gaelic, 
feaddn.  Their  harmony  was  perfect  as  they  trod  lightly 
over  the  cobble-stones,  their  bent  elbows  almost  touch- 
ing, while  the  tune  floated  away  in  a  thin  wail  on  the 
morning  mist.  I  leaned  through  the  little  window  as  far 
as  was  compatible  with  my  safety,  and  watched  them 
disappear  round  the  bend  of  the  street.  Then  I  went 
back  to  my  pillow  to  pass  the  time  in  wondering — until 
the  household  should  be  awake — what  was  the  story  of 
these  two  who  had  gone  by  with  their  strange  music  so 
early  in  the  autumn  dawning. 


"  Ah  then,"  said  my  host,  Niall  Beag  MacGinley,  as 
we  sat  in  each  corner  of  the  wide  settle  in  the  window 
that  faced  the  street.  "  Ah  then,"  filling  his  after-break- 
fast pipe  with  great  deliberation,  "  'tis  the  same  question 
that  has  been  often  put  to  me ;  and  what  man  has  a 
better  right  to  answer,  or  what  man  in  all  the  Glen  can 
give  you  the  truth  as  I  can,  word  for  word  ?  Yes,  God 
He  sees,  word  for  word." 

Here  he  reached  out  for  a  lighted  turf  which  he 
applied  to  his  pipe,  and  puffed  away  in  unctous  silence. 
Floundering  through  my  amateurish  Gaelic,  I  begged 
him  to  proceed. 

"  Ah  yes,  it  is  myself,  Niall  Beg  MacGinley,  can  tell 
the  tale.  Often  and  often  I  have  told  it,  gentleman,  to 
others  coming  like  yourself  for  the  fishing  to  Loch  na 
Soluis — for  the  music  going  by  so  early  has  wakened 
many  in  that  gable-room.  One  time  it  has  been :  '  Is 
that  room  of  yours  haunted,  Niall  ? '  Or/  What  was  the 
music  that  disturbed  me?'  Or  again,  '  Cannot  the  vil- 
lage band  choose  a  more  fitting  hour  than  dawn  for  their 
practising  ? '     Or,  maybe  another  would  ask,  '  I  saw  two 


THE    MEN    OF    THE    MUSIC.  4? 

strange  old  men  go  by  playing  this  morning,  Niall — were 
they  ghosts  or  what1?  '  " 

He  paused  to  gaze  for  a  moment  into  the  fire,  and  his 
jovial  face  grew  thoughtful. 

"  Gentleman,  it  was  the  Men  of  the  Music  you  saw — 
the  Men  of  the  Music." 

"Who  are  they,  and  why  are  they  called  so?"  I 
queried. 

'  That  you  will  hear  in  good  time,"  he  replied  slowly, 
with  all  the  dignity  of  the  scanachic.  "  It  is  a  sad  story, 
theirs,  and  a  strange." 

I  leaned  back  in  my  corner  resignedly,  seeing  that  my 
eagerness  merely  flattered  him  into  further  procrastina- 
tion. 

"  Padraic  and  Brian  O'Keeney  are  names  they  are 
having,"  he  announced  at  last,  "  and  they  went  by  this 
morning  to  cut  the  little  field  of  corn  they  have  ripening 
by  the  Loch  side.  Do  you  see  that  little  house  up  on  the 
slope  there  " — here  he  led  me  by  the  arm  to  the  doorway 
— "  with  its  white  walls  and  the  neat  fences  around  ? 
That  is  the  home  where  they  were  born,  and  where  they 
lived  together  since  the  mother  of  them  died.  A  good 
woman  and  kind  was  Mairgread,  may  her  bed 
bu  soft  in  heaven,  always  generous  with  the  bite 
and  the  sup  to  the  needy.  It  was  at  one  birth 
the  boys  were  born,  and  Manus  was  the  proud 
father  surely  that  day  when  he  saw  the  two 
little  heads  on  the  pillow  beside  Mairgread.  They  were 
never  a  day  separate  in  their  growing-up,  nor  had  one  a 
thought  apart  from  the  other.  The  handsome  lads  they 
were,  too — handsomest  in  the  parish — and  first  at  every 
diversion,  with  their  music,  and  their  dancing,  and  their 
love-eyes  at  the  colleens.  Padraic,  it  was  the  fiddle  he 
played ;  and  Brian — oh !  where  was  his  equal  on  the 
pipes?" 


48  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

He  nodded  solemnly  at  the  fire,  as  he  repeated  the  last 
sentence,  half  to  himself. 

"  My  mother,  God  be  good  to  her,  used  often  to  say 
that  she  felt  the  fairies  around  her  when  Brian  would  be 
playing  his  pipes  of  a  summer  evening  on  the  rath  be- 
hind ;  and  then  she  would  grope  for  her  beads  in  the  big 
pocket  she  wore,  so  as  to  keep  their  spells  away.  She 
knew  the  Little  People  must  be  jealous  because  he  had 
stolen  their  art;  for  I  swear  to  you,  gentleman,  it  was 
like  no  earthly  music  when  Brian  O'Keeney  put  his 
lingers  on  the  keys,  and  his  lips  to  the  mouthpiece.  Oh 
no,  like  no  earthly  music  that  ever  was. 

'  They  were  young — scarce  past  twenty  years — when 
the  cruel  fever  carried  off  both  Mairgread  and  her  man, 
within  a  week  of  each  other.  Mairgread,  who  was  the 
last  to  die,  made  the  lads  promise  to  stay  together  in  the 
old  home.  '  If  one  of  ye  marries/  she  said,  '  let  him 
bring  the  woman  here,  and  she  will  be  a  sister  to  the 
ether;  if  both  of  ye  do  it,  then  there  is  room  for  all — 
many  a  small  roof  covers  great  happiness.  It  is  my  bless- 
ing I  leave  you,  and  my  prayer  that  no  woman  may  ever 
cast  sorrow  upon  my  sons.' 

■  Ah,  my  grief ;  it  was  the  knowledge  that  was  in  the 
poor  dying  heart  of  her  made  her  speak ;  for  a  woman 
came,  and  the  bitter  black  sorrow  indeed  she  cast  upon 
them.  She  was  a  young  colleen,  and  fair — well  do  I  re- 
member— with  eyes  as  innocently  blue  as  the  Loch  water 
under  a  sunshiny  sky,  and  the  hair  of  her  like  the  har- 
vest gold,  and  the  lips  of  her  red  as  rowan  berries.  Truly 
the  lovely  young  lass  she  was ;  but  the  rash  tongue  she 
had,  and  the  foolish  mind,  for  all  her  beauty.  Soon  she 
had  set  the  young  men  of  the  Glen  against  each  other — 
with  her  kiss  to  this  one,  and  her  smile  to  that,  and  her 
kind  word  to  the  other,  and  her  truth  for  none.     Ah,  no 


THE    MEN    OF    THE    MUSIC.  49 

indeed,  her  truth  for  none,  as  I  learned  to  my  cost, 
though,"  with  a  sly  glance  towards  the  dairy,  where  a 
short  matronly  figure  moved  hither  and  thither,  while 
the  thud,  thud,  of  the  churn-staff,  as  it  lashed  the  milk, 
made  a  pleasant  subdued  noise—"  The  bean-an-tighe 
beyond  was  never  a  bit  the  wiser  of  that  young  folly  of 
mine,  nor  need  she  ever  be.  Men  will  be  men,  and  there 
is  much  the  woman  that  is  your  wife  had  best  be  ignorant 
of." 

'  True  man  you  are  for  that  saying,  Niall  Beag."  I 
nodded  my  head  eagerly  in  approval.  There  was  a 
twinkle  in  his  eye  as  he  resumed. 

'  Well,  it  was  not  long  until  the  village  began  to  see 
where  the  tricks  of  Eilis  would  make  trouble.  One  time 
she  would  be  walking  with  Brian  through  the  boreens  in 
the  gloaming,  and  next  she  would  be  whispering  with 
Padraic  across  some  stile,  when  she  should  have  been 
hurrying  home  from  milking  the  cows.  The  ether  lads 
seemed  to  have  found  out  her  mischievous  ways  for  them- 
selves before  it  was  too  late;  but  the  brothers  were  too 
simple,  and  no  one  dared  to  warn  them.  Soon  we  noticed 
something  between  them.  They  did  not  come  together 
as  often  as  before,  to  the  dance  and  the  merry-making ; 
nor  did  they  go  away  together.  Maybe,  for  all  we 
guessed,  each  went  his  separate  road  to  catch  a  last  word 
or  smile  from  the  girl  who  was  torturing  both. 

One  evening — it  was  the  middle  of  summer,  for  I  re- 
member the  hedsres  were  dotted  with  wild  roses — I  came 

O 

upon  the  three,  and  bitter,  bitter  speech  passed  between 
them.  Eilis  sat  a-top  of  the  stile  that  was  at  the  end  of 
the  meadow  I  was  crossing  as  my  nearest  path  home,  and 
the  brothers  stood  one  on  each  side,  black  anger  on  their 
faces,  and  their  mouths  hot  with  the  curses  that  were 
hotter  still.       It  would  have  been  an  ill  sight  for  their 


50  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

mother  to  see,  and  I've  often  thought  since  that  it  was 
the  kind  God  He  was  to  have  spared  poor  Mairgread  this. 
Their  hands  were  uplifted  to  strike,  while  Eilis  sat 
smiling,  drawing  the  strings  of  her  bonnet  between  her 
lips  and  taunting  one  and  the  other  in  turn.  She  grew 
suddenly  white  as  the  ceanabhdn  blossom  when  she 
twisted  round  and  saw  me  standing  behind  her. 

"  I  did  not  spare  the  treacherous  foolish  thing ;  for  I 
had  my  own  score  to  pay  back  to  her.  I  was  the  lad  she 
had  given  her  kiss  to,  and  her  pledge,  and  it  was  over  the 
head  of  Padraic  and  Brian  we  had  quarrelled.  She  had 
cried  sore,  and  clung  to  me,  saying  I  was  the  only  one  she 
wanted ;  but  I  did  not  heed.  I  cast  her  off,  and  the  love 
I  had  in  my  heart  for  her  died  away  as  a  fire  of  peat 
might  die  into  grey  ashes.  When  I  saw  her  raising  the 
winds  of  hate  between  poor  Mairgread's  sons,  all  that  was 
in  my  mind  against  her  went  Qut  in  flaming  words. 

"  '  Brian,  friend  of  my  heart/  I  said,  '  and  Padraic,  a 
dhilis,  is  it  for  a  light  foolish  woman  you  will  be  throw- 
ing the  curses  at  one  another?  Few  of  them  are  worth 
an  honest  man's  rage,  and  she  least  of  all ;  for  it  is 
nothing  but  trouble  she  has  been  stirring  up  in  the  Glen 
since  she  came.'  And  I  said  much  more,  gentleman, 
which,  for  shame's  sake,  I  will  not  be  telling  you,  now 
that  the  past  is  past  and  the  resentment  long  left  me. 
Maybe  it  was  too  harsh  my  speech  was,  and  she  such  a 
slender  pretty  young  flower  of  a  maid ;  but  I  did  not 
weigh  the  words  then,  and  they  tumbled  from  my  lips  in 
a  torrent.  I  only  knew  how  cruel  they  were  by  the 
horror  in  her  eyes. 

"  When  I  had  finished  she  stepped  down  from  the  stile 
and  stood  before  me.  '  God  forgive  you,  Niall  MacGinley,' 
was  all  she  said,  and  a  stab  ran  through  my  heart  that 
1  thought  hardened  to  her  wiles,  for  her  miserable  eyes 
had  told  me  the  truth  at  last." 


THE    MEN    OF    THE    MUSIC.  51 

His  voice  broke,  and  I  could  see  a  moisture  gather  on 
his  lowered  lashes  as  he  continued. 

'  But  it  was  too  late  for  any  understanding  between 
us,  gentleman.  I  had  wounded  her  to  the  core.  She 
walked  away  slowly  with  head  down  bent,  and  the  next 
morning  she  left  the  place  for  the  home  of  some  kinsfolk 
that  dwelt  in  a  distant  town.  I  have  never  seen  her  since. 
Sometimes  the  old  people,  like  myself,  talk  over  the  story, 
and  the  young  smile  at  it  in  their  untried  wisdom,  and 
now  and  then  a  tender-hearted  one  will  drop  a  tear;  but 
the  years  have  brought  little  change  to  the  live3  of  these 
two — making  their  music  day  after  day — except  the 
gray  hairs,  and  the  weariness,  and  the  backward  glances 
into  the  long-gone  time  that  the  old  cherish  most. 

'  There  now,  it  is  the  tongue  of  me  is  running  too  fast, 
gentleman.  As  the  life  shortens  the  tongue  lengthens — 
is  a  wise  saying.  Soon  we  all  saw  that  matters  were 
growing  even  worse  between  the  boys,  so  one  day  I  went 
to  the  little  white  house  and  begged  that  peace  should  be 
between  them  for  their  mother's  sake.  Tliey  were  silent 
at  first,  and  angry  belike ;  then  Padraic  spoke  what  was 
in  the  heart  of  him,  poor  lad — 'twas  the  sore  heart,  too. 
4 1  will  live  with  him  that  is  my  brother  and  was  my 
friend,  because  he  is  my  mother's  son,'  he  said,  '  but 
never  again  will  the  word  cross  my  lips  to  him — no,  never 
in  this  life.     He  can  go  his  own  way,  I  will  go  mine.' 

"  My  sorrow  !  I  knew  it  would  make  further  mischief 
if  I  said  more,  so  I  only  looked  at  Brian.  His  eyes  were 
hard,  and  his  mouth  set.  He  glared  at  his  brother  for 
one  moment,  while  I  saw  the  muscles  of  his  neck  swell 
and  his  hands  clench,  but  he  did  not  speak.  Instead,  he 
opened  the  door  quickly,  and  stepped  out  into  the  night. 

"  They  gave  up  their  sports  and  dancing,  and  by  de- 
grees their  friendly   ways  of  dropping  in  on  this  neigh- 


52  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

bour  and  that.  Padraic  would  sit  in  a  dark  corner,  as 
far  as  possible  from  the  fire,  playing  on  his  fiddle  so  as  to 
keep  out  of  the  talk.  It  was  afterwards  I  discovered — 
through  the  curiosity  of  the  children,  who  stole  off  to 
peep  in  at  the  window  every  evening — that  when  they 
were  by  themselves  Padraic  took  up  the  fiddle  and  Brian 
the  pipes ;  and  thus  they  put  in  the  time  between  supper 
and  bed. 

"  Well,  God  be  thanked,  the  music  kept  them  from 
worse,  maybe,  and  now  when  they  go  to  cut  their  corn  by 
the  Loch  side,  or  cross  beyond  to  the  fields  to  plough  or 
sow  in  the  spring — 'tis  ever  the  same ;  the  feaddn,  and 
the  fideog,  give  notice  of  their  coming.  For  you  see, 
gentleman,  the  fiddle  and  the  pipes  would  be  awkward  to 
carry  morning  and  evening,  leaving  aside  that  the  moist 
air  would  be  bad  for  both.  So,  'tis  the  fideog  and  the 
feaddn  they  choose  instead,  for  they  could  play  them  as 
well  as  the  others.  And  now,  that  is  their  story  for  you, 
every  word  as  true  as  Gospel ;  Christ  and  Mary  look 
down  on  their  spoilt  sorrowful  lives." 

I  came  back  the  next  autumn  to  the  same  little  gable- 
room,  and  the  music  of  the  fideog  and  the  feaddn.  The 
brothers  were  just  as  usual,  my  friend,  Niall  Beag,  as- 
sured me,  in  answer  to  my  eager  inquiries ;  yet,  strange 
to  say,  a  change  in  their  monotonous  existence  was  im- 
pending, in  the  bringing  about  of  which  I  myself  was  to 
play  a  part. 

When  I  was  in  the  place  a  few  days  an  unexpected  in- 
vitation reached  me  from  a  friend  who  had  taken  a  fish- 
ing lodge  in  a  distant  quarter  of  the  country.  "  I  am  in 
the  heart  of  a  glen,"  he  wrote,  "  and  there's  sport  such  as 
you  have  never  seen  in  your  life  before,  in  these  waters. 
Only  a  group  of  cabins  in  the  whole  place,  and  my 
shanty.    So  you'll  get  quiet,  and  homely  fare.    Do  come." 


THE    MEN    OF    THE    MUSIC.  53 

I  went,  and  drove  down  that  glen  in  the  sunset,  when 
every  nook  and  corner  of  it  was  glorified  in  the  magic 
light.  The  heather  ran  in  flaming  purple  floods  down 
the  mountain  sides,  out  of  which  huge  boulders  rose, 
moss-green  and  rugged ;  and  the  river,  which  was  so  full 
of  promise,  wandered  like  a  thread  of  silver  through  the 
gold  and  russet  and  purple  peacefulness.  The  corn 
fields,  newly  cut,  together  with  other  signs  of  pastoral 
life,  charmed  my  practical  eye ;  and  I  noticed,  too,  that 
all  the  women  I  passed  on  my  way  were  knitting,  or 
flowering — as  the  fine  hand-embroidery  on  muslin  and 
cambric  is  called.  They  returned  kindly  Gaelic  greet- 
ings to  my  "Via  dim  it  "  (God  save  you)  with  pleasant 
smiles ;  and  truly  I  deemed  my  friend  and  myself  fortu- 
nate in  our  surroundings. 

One  afternoon  I  had  wandered  towards  the  farther 
end  of  the  Glen,  and,  feeling  thirsty  and  very  tired  under 
the  hot  sun,  called  at  the  open  door  of  a  neat  cottage  for 
the  wayfarer's  bite  and  sup.  Just  inside  the  threshold 
an  old  woman  sat  spinning,  who  rose  and  brought  me  a 
foaming  jug  of  milk,  and  a  generous  square  of  thickly- 
buttered  oaten  bread.  As  I  ate  and  drank  she  interro- 
gated me  thoughtfully,  noting  my  exhausted  condition. 
Was  it  a  long  journey  I  had  come?  Had  the  fishing 
been  good  ?  Did  I  think  that  I  would  feel  able  to  return 
that  night  ?  If  not,  she  would  make  me  a  shake-down  by 
the  fire;  and  her  nephew,  with  whom  she  lived,  would 
gladly  see  after  my  comfort.  She  was  a  little  thin  old 
woman  with  a  pretty  red  on  her  old  cheeks,  very  alert  in 
her  movements.  As  I  answered,  and  told  the  distance  I 
had  come,  she  made  little  crooning  sounds  of  interest.  I 
showed  her  my  basket,  heavy  with  fine  trout,  and  begged 
her  acceptance  of  a  couple.  "  Ah,  no,  no,"  she 
shook     her    head,     "  the     gentleman     ought    to     keep 


/ 


54  THE   PASSIONATE   HEARTS. 

what  he  had  won  by  his  hard  day's  tramping 
to  show  his  friends  at  the  lodge,  or  perhaps 
they  wouldn't  believe  he  had  caught  so  many."  Then 
we  drifted  into  conversation  about  the  country  beyond 
the  high  hills  that  bulwarked  the  valley.  Yes,  she  had 
once  been  beyond  there  when  she  was  young;  though 
now  it  seemed  like  a  dream  to  remember  that  she  had 
ever  been  anywhere  in  the  world  outside  her  own  glen. 
She  gave  a  strange  start  when  I  mentioned  Loch  na 
Soluis,  and  a  shadow  came  over  her  eyes. 

"  I  used  to  live  there  when  I  was  a  girl,"  said  she. 

I   mentioned   the  name   of  a  few   of  the  villagers; 
amongst  others,  the  Men  of  the  Music. 

"  Ah,  God  forgive  me,"  she  wailed,  putting  up  her 
hands  to  cover  her  face.     "  I  knew  them  long  ago." 

At  that  a  sudden  light  broke  on  me.  "  You  are  Eilis," 
I  exclaimed  involuntarily. 

She  dropped  her  hands  on  the  instant,  and  the  old  face 

went  pale  as  death. 

"How  do  you  know?  Who  told  you  this?"  she 
gasped. 

Already  I  had  regretted  my  hasty  and  unwarrantable 
remark ;  but  I  had  gone  too  far  now  to  refuse  the  expla- 
nation she  evidently  desired.  I  fidgetted  a  moment  awk- 
wardly, while  she  sat  expectant.  "  If  you  please,  will 
you  tell  me,  gentleman,"  she  said,  timidly. 

So,  as  we  sat  there  by  the  open  door  of  her  little  cot- 
tage, with  the  twilight  mists  falling  like  a  veil  upon  the 
heathery  slope,  and  yellow  corn-fields,  and  the  river  sing- 
ing a  little  lullaby  of  its  own  to  the  dying  day,  I  told  her 
the  after-tale  of  Padraic  and  Brian  O'Keeney.  She 
crouched  silent,  with  her  apron  over  her  head,  rocking 
gently  to  and  fro,  as  I  spoke. 

When  the  tale  was  ended  she  uncovered  her  face,  and 
gazed  at  me  earnestly  with  tear-filled  eyes. 


THE    MEN    OF    THE    MUSIC.  56 

"  What  can  I  do?  "  she  whispered.  "  Can  I  do  any- 
thing at  all?" 

Then  I  had  an  inspiration.  "  Come  back  and  make 
peace  between  them/'  I  said.  "  You  owe  this  reparation 
to  their  ruined  lives." 

She  beat  her  bosom  in  passionate  self-accusation. 

"  Ah  yes,"  she  murmured  slowly,  "  we  are  old  now,  and 
the  grave  near.     I  will  go." 

That  night  I  accepted  the  hospitality  of  the  nephew ; 
and  the  next  morning  saw  me  set  out  accompanied  by  an 
old  weeping  woman,  who  all  the  way  kept  dabbing  with 
a  red  cotton  handkerchief  at  drenched  eyes,  that  were 
hardly  to  be  seen  under  the  dark  gathered  border  of  her 
hood.  In  spite  of  her  grief  she  was  excited  and  pleased 
at  the  novelty  of  the  journey,  and  the  swift  motion  of  the 
train  inspired  her  with  awe.  I  could  hear  her  praying 
softly  at  intervals. 

When  I  brought  Eilis  to  Niall  Beag  MacGinley's,  that 
worthy  man  looked  as  if  a  ghost  had  arisen.  He  recog- 
nised her,  and  it  was  a  trembling  hand  he  stretched  out 
to  clasp  hers.  I  drew  him  aside  and  explained  that  after 
she  had  rested,  he  must  take  her  up  to  the  little  white 
house  on  the  hill.  I  had  done  my  share — with  God 
should  be  the  rest. 

Afterwards  Niall  Beag  told  me  the  details  of  the  inter- 
view. My  regret  is  that  I  cannot  give  them  in  the  im- 
pressive Gaelic  of  his  own  words. 

"  They  were  sitting  playing,  one  on  each  side  of  the 
greesaugh,  when  we  came  in,"  said  he,  "  and  the  crickets 
were  chirruping  very  loud.  But,  for  all  that,  it  was  a 
lcnesome  sight.  Eilis  stopped  just  inside  the  threshold, 
for  I  made  her  enter  before  me,  and  Brian  was  the  first 
tc  see  her. 

"  '  What  little  woman  is  this? '  he  called  out,  and  his 


56  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

voice  was  loud  and  threatening.  '  There  is  no  place  for 
a  woman  here/  At  that  she  put  back  her  hood — and 
oh  !  God  in  heaven,  such  a  look  in  all  their  eyes. 

"  '  Eilis/  cried  Brian. 

"  '  Eilis/  cried  Padraic. 

"  '  I  have  come  to  make  peace,'  said  she,  reaching  out 
her  hands  suddenly  and  clutching  a  hand  of  each.  '  To 
make  peace  where  I  made  strife  long  ago.' 

"  Neither  moved ;  they  were  too  dazed ;  but  I  saw 
clearly  the  thought  running  through  their  minds — that 
it  was  for  this  woman,  no  longer  young,  no  longer  lovely, 
they  had  borne  the  weary  burden  of  hate.  They,  like 
myself,  had  always  dreamed  of  her  as  we  had  seen  her 
last  in  her  handsome  girlhood,  and  the  reality,  though  a 
shock,  was  the  one  thing  necessary  both  to  disillusion 
them  and  to  extinguish  their  antagonism.  I  drew  back 
into  the  shadows,  leaving  the  three  to  themselves. 
Padraic  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  *  Why  did  you  do  it,  Eilis  ? '  said  he,  softly. 

"  '  Why  did  you  put  this  heart-break  on  us  ? '  said 
Brian. 

" '  Be  kind,  and  make  peace,  and  forgive  me/  she 
begged.  And  across  her  bent  head,  with  the  old  affec- 
tion breaking  through  the  crust  of  dislike,  the  brothers 
gazed  remorsefully  into  each  other's  eyes." 


Several  years  elapsed  before  I  again  revisited  Loch  na 
Soluis,  and  then  I  brought  with  me  my  dear  wife.  I 
found  many  changes  in  the  familiar  place ;  but  my  host 
of  former  days,  Niall  Beag,  was  still  alive,  though  rheum- 
atic and  very  feeble.  In  answer  to  my  inquiries  con- 
cerning the  Men  of  the  Music,  he  shook  his  gray  head 
sadly. 


THE    MEN    OF    THE    MUSIC. 


57 


"  They  are  under  the  sod  in  Kilcreevanty,"  he  said, 
"  sleeping  soundly  together.  It  was  on  a  Christmas  Day 
they  died,  and,  curiously,  they  had  longed  prayed  that 
God  might  take  them  to  Him  on  that  day  of  days.  They 
drew  their  last  breath  almost  at  the  same  moment ;  and 
were  laid  side  by  side  in  the  one  death-bed.  There  was 
never  such  a  wake  known  before  in  the  country;  for 
people  came  in  from  far  and  near.  On  the  morning  of 
their  burial  it  was  very  wild  and  stormy,  with  a  cold  rain 
blowing  from  the  west.  Yet,  for  all  that,  two  lighted 
candles  were  carried  in  front  of  their  coffins  across  to  the 
church-yard  beyond,  and  though  the  rain  fell,  and  the 
wind  blew,  the  candles  were  not  quenched,  nor  did  the 
flame  flicker  once.  This  was  a  sign  to  show  that  they 
were  holy  souls,  and  had  died  at  peace  with  God.  May 
He  give  them  rest." 

And  "  May  He  give  them  rest,"  I  repeated  fervently 
after  him. 


Ok  Wee  6rap  Woman, 


THE   WEE   GRAY  WOMAN. 


HIS  cabin  stood  by  the  side  of  a  burn  into  which  the 
sally-trees  drooped  from  either  side,  making  a 
thick  fringe  of  green  that  met  overhead  and 
cast  dappled  shadows  on  the  clear  water  when  the  sun 
stood  high  and  fierce  in  the  heavens.  Little  ripples 
broke  in  white  bubbles  around  the  stones  that  made  the 
crossing-places,  and  the  speckled  trout  darted  like  tiny 
silver  spears  through  their  haunts  below  the  overhanging 
banks. 

It  was  a  tranquil,  lonely  spot;  eerie,  too,  in  the 
autumn  twilight,  when  the  slow-creeping  mists  rose  uj 
from  the  bog  for  miles  around,  and  many  were  the  tales 
told  of  an  evening,  by  the  folk  living  on  the  high  land,  of 
lights  that  flashed  all  over  the  bog  at  the  very  moment 
that  Jamie  Boyson  set  his  candle  in  his  cottage  window 
to  guide  the  Wee  Gray  Woman  up  the  rugged  loaning  to 
her  seat  in  the  chimney  corner. 

Once  it  happened  that  the  wild  young  fellows  of  Glen- 
wherry  came  in  the  dead  of  night  to  play  a  trick  on 
Jamie.  They  stole  over  the  stepping-stones  of  the  burn 
and  noiselessly  reached  the  one-paned  window,  half 
hidden  by  thatch,  in  which  the  light  gleamed.  A  rei 
turf  fire  blazing  on  the  hearth  lit  up  the  interior  of  th„' 
old  man's  kitchen ;  it  shone  on  the  battered  ancient 
dresser,  and  on  the  store  of  carefully-kept  delf  that  had 
been  his  mother's.  For  Jamie  had  the  name  of  being 
cleanly  and  thrifty  in  his  ways.     The  hearth  was  care- 


62  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

fully  swept,  the  flat  stones  at  front  and  sides  whitened 
by  a  practised  hand,  and  no  ragged  streaks  wandered 
over  the  edges  on  to  the  clay  floor  beyond.  A  three- 
legged  stool  stood  in  front  of  the  fire,  placed  there  for 
the  convenience  of  the  unearthly  visitant  who,  Jamie 
said,  came  nightly  to  sit  and  rest  herself  by  the  greesaugh 
until  the  black  cock  should  crow  in  the  rafters  above  the 
settle-bed,  invariably  awaking  him  at  the  same  moment 
that  the  Wee  Gray  Woman  got  warning  to  leave.  That 
was  why  he  could  never  get  a  right  look  at  her,  he  la- 
mented. Sometimes  he  opened  his  eyes  in  time  to  see 
the  flutter  of  her  gray  cloak  as  she  passed  out  of  his  door, 
and  once  he  caught  a  gleam  of  red.  It  was  a  red  hood 
she  wore,  not  like  anything  that  mortal  ever  saw  before, 
but  just  as  if  a  big  scarlet  tulip  had  been  crushed  down 
over  her  head  with  all  the  leaves  sticking  out  round  her 
face.  And  his  blood  always  curdled  when  she  gave  a 
cry  going  over  the  threshold,  as  if  she  was  being  dragged 
away  into  some  dreaded  torment  from  which  she  had  had 
a  respite. 

"  It  would  break  the  heart  in  yer  breast  to  hear  it,  just 
for  all  the  worl'  like  the  whine  of  a  dog  when  there's 
death  arounV'  he  would  say. 

But  no  one  could  get  him  to  commit  himself  as  to  a 
theory  about  the  comings  and  goings  of  the  Wee  Woman. 
Whether  he  fancied  her  a  friendly  denizen  of  fairyland, 
or  a  poor  wandering  ghost  dreeing  her  purgatory  for  her 
own  sake  or  the  sake  of  some  one  loved  and  living,  the  in- 
quisitive people  of  the  bog-side  could  never  learn,  yet 
night  after  night  the  hearth  was  swept,  and  the  stool 
placed  that  she  might  have  her  rest  until  dawn  broke  in 
a  flame  of  gold  and  pale  chilly  green  over  the  hill-tops. 

So  the  ghostly  story  spread,  as  such  stories  will, 
through  the  country,  finding  by  turns  sympathiser  and 


THE    WEE    GRAY    WOMAN.  63 

sceptic  alike,  who  yearned,  though  fear  of  the  super- 
natural kept  most  of  them  away,  for  a  peep  through 
Jamie's  window  before  the  black  cock  gave  the  signal. 
But  the  young  fellows  from  Glenwherry,  daring  and  mis- 
chievous as  they  were,  had  made  up  their  minds  to  solve 
the  mystery,  and  nothing  daunted,  holding  their  breath 
steadily,  they  drew  close  to  the  little  window,  and  out  of 
the  thick  blackness  of  the  last  night-hour  glared  into  the 
haunted  kitchen. 

The  firelight  flickered  fitfully  at  first,  so  that  their 
eyes,  half  blinded  with  the  darkness,  saw  nothing  save 
shadows ;  then,  suddenly,  a  gleam  shot  from  the  heart  of 
the  dying  turf,  and  showed  a  vision  that  drove  them 
back  from  the  window,  saddened  and  ashamed. 

It  was  only  the  old  man  asleep  in  his  settle-bed,  his 
thin,  wrinkled  profile  outlined  like  a  cameo  against  the 
background  of  dark  wood,  and  the  patient  old  hands, 
that  were  so  gentle  and  capable,  folded  upon  his  breast, 
as  when  he  had  lain  down  to  sleep. 

After  that  the  Wee  Gray  Woman  might  come  and  go, 
without  dread  of  being  watched  for,  or  disturbed,  and 
among  the  Glenwherry  lads  Jamie  found  a  set  of  stal- 
wart partisans,  whose  judgment  in  his  favour  dare  not  be 
gainsaid. 

He  was  not  altogether  devoid  of  occupation  and  amuse- 
ment in  his  lonely  existence.  The  little  one-roomed 
cabin  was  tidy  as  a  woman  might  have  kept  it.  And 
though  he  harboured  neither  cat  nor  dog,  during  one 
winter  at  least — the  severest  winter  known  for  many 
years  in  that  locality — he  had  a  pet,  and  the  pet  was  a 
cricket.  Imported  from  a  neighbouring  fireside,  he  had 
trained  it  with  the  utmost  patience  and  skill  until  the 
diminutive  dusty-looking  object  learned  to  jump  out 
from  behind  the  big  pot  in  the  chimney-corner  at  his 


64 


THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 


call.  The  stofe  of  his  having  accomplished  such  a  mar- 
vel scarcely  gjjjled  credence ;  it  was  not  to  be  compared 
to  that  of  his*fhostly  guest;  but  the  country  children 
cherished  it  and  repeated  it  in  wide-eyed  wonder,  when 
they  gathered  round  their  elders'  knees  before  the  unwel- 
come bedtime;  while  the  more  superstitious  asserted 
that  it  was  the  Wee  Gray  Woman  come  to  bide  with 
Jamie  Boyson  by  day  in  another  guise.  It  certainly 
looked  uncanny  enough,  hop-hopping  over  the  floor,  chir- 
ruping in  a  shrill,  faint  treble  to  his  deeper  intonation, 
and,  when  he  lifted  it,  creeping  into  the  shelter  of  his 
hand,  as  a  home  bird  might  that  has  known  and  loved 
and  trusted  in  the  kind  guardianship. 

But  once  upon  a  time  Jamie  Boyson  had  need  of 
neither  ghost  nor  cricket  for  company.  That  was  in  the 
days  of  his  early  manhood,  when,  stalwart,  supple,  and 
strong,  he  led  the  boys  of  Crebilly  to  victory  on  many  a 
hard-fought  field  of  a  Sunday,  proving  himself  a  cham- 
pion to  be  proud  of,  in  throwing  the  shoulder-stone,  and 
wielding  the  camdn  against  the  athletic  G-lenwherry 
lads,  with  big  Dan  O'Hara  at  their  head.  Then,  where 
was  his  equal  to  be  found  at  dance  or  christening  ?  Why, 
half  the  girls  in  the  country  were  in  love  with  him,  and 
hopelessly,  too,  as  they  learned  to  admit  to  their  own 
sad  hearts,  that  fluttered  so  uncomfortably  under  the 
Sunday  'kerchiefs  when  he  passed,  his  black  head  erect, 
and  his  shoulders  squared  like  a  militia  major's,  without 
a  look  at  one  of  them,  up  the  chapel  aisle  to  his  seat  next 
his  mother  in  the  old  family  pew. 

The  family  pew  held  something  else  besides  his 
mother;  something  the  very  sight  of  which  was  enough 
to  bring  the  red  blood  in  a  rush  to  the  roots  of  his  curly 
dark  hair,  and  make  his  heart  almost  leap  out  of  his 
breast  for  gladness ;  something  that  was  small,  and  fair, 


THE    WEE    GRAY    WOMAN.  65 

and  blue-eyed,  half-hiden  behind  his  mother's  ample 
form,  and  scarcely  lifting  her  white  lids  from  the  beads 
she  was  passing  through  her  fingers. 

She  was  no  stranger  to  him ;  he  had  many  opportuni- 
ties of  watching  her  pale  sweetness  by  his  own  fireside  at 
night,  without  embarrassing  her  with  that  burning  gaze 
of  his  under  the  disapproving  eyes  of  all  the  congrega- 
tion ;  but  he  was  wont  to  say  to  himself,  as  a  sort  of  justi- 
fication, that  little  Rosie  at  her  prayers  taught  him  more 
about  heaven  and  holiness  than  the  priest  could  do  with 
all  his  preaching. 

His  brother  Hugh  used  to  joke  him  often  and  often 
about  his  fancy  for  the  little  orphan  girl  whom  his 
mother  had  saved  from  the  poorhouse,  and  Jamie's  brow 
would  glow  with  the  angry  red  that  warned  Hugh's 
tongue  to  stop,  and  the  laughter  to  die  out  of  his  merry 
brown  face.  There  were  only  the  two  of  them  left  to  his 
mother,  and  one  took  little  Rosie  into  his  life  as  a  sister, 
while  to  the  other  she,  whom  the  country  lads  in  general 
had  called  "  a  poor,  pale  wisp  o'  a  thing,"  became  his  all, 
his  world,  his  gateway  of  Paradise.  How  the  love  for 
her  grew  up  in  his  heart  was  a  mystery  to  him.  Perhaps 
it  took  root  when  as  a  little  child — the  evening  she  came 
heme  to  them — she  laid  her  flaxen  head  on  the  bashful 
lad's  broad  shoulder  and  would  not  be  parted  from  him 
until  sleep  stole  on  her  unawares  and  released  the  tiny 
hands  from  their  grasp  on  his  strong  ones.  Or  perhaps 
it  came  later  as  he  learned  to  watch  delightedly  her  deft, 
gentle  household  ways,  and  heard  her  crooning  to  herself 
over  her  flowering,  in  the  rare  leisure  moments  the  active, 
bustling  mother  allowed. 

There  was  an  old  song  he  was  very  fond  of  singing 
about  "  Lord  Edward  " — an  old  song  she  loved  to  listen 
to — and  he  was  always  sure  of  a  grateful  glance  from  the 

E 


66  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

shy  eyes,  when  of  a  winter's  night  he  favoured  the  little 
circle  around  the  hearth  of  Lisnahilt  with  the  stanzas  set 
to  an  air  that  was  very  popular  in  the  district :  — 

"  The  day  that  traitors  sold  him  an'  enemies  bought  him, 

The  day  that  the  red  gold  and  red  blood  was  paid ; 
Then  the  green  turned  pale  and  trembled  like  the  dead 
leaves  in  autumn, 
An'  the  heart  an'  hope  of  Ireland  in  the  cold  grave  was 
laid. 

"  The  day  I  saw  you  first,  with  the  sunshine  fallin'  round 

ye, 

My  heart  fairly  opened  with  the  grandeur  of  the  view ; 
For  ten  thousand  Irish  boys  that  day  did  surround  ye, 
An'  I  swore  to  stand  by  them  till  death,  an'  fight  for 


you. 


"  Ye  wor  the  bravest  gentleman  an'  the  best  that  ever 
stood, 
An'   yer  eyelids   never  trembled   for  danger   nor   for 
dread, 
An'  nobleness  was  flowin'  in  each  stream  of  your  blood— 
My  blessin'  on  ye  day  and  night,  an'  Glory  be  your 
bed. 

"  My  black  and  bitter  curse  on  the  head  an'  heart  an' 
hand 
That  plotted,  wished,  an'  worked  tne  fall  of  this  Irish 
hero  bold, 
God's  curse  upon  the  Irishman  that  sould  his  native  land, 
And  hell   consume  to  dust  the  hand   that  held  the 
traitor's  gold." 

Sometimes  tired  with  the  day's  hard  work,  she  would 
rest  her  head  against  the  wall  with  a  low  sigh  of  weari- 


THE    WEE    GRAY    WOMAN.  67 

ness.  She  must  often  be  tired,  he  thought ;  those  little 
feet  had  run  about  so  nimbly  since  early  morning,  and 
the  little  red  hands  had  washed  and  baked,  without  a 
moment's  pause  ;  but,  please  God,  that  would  be  all 
ended  soon,  when  his  wife  should  reign  over  a  home  of 
her  own,  and  he  had  taken  her  into  the  shelter  of  his 
strong  arms  for  evermore. 

Yet  no  word  of  this  crossed  his  lips,  though  the  desire 
that  filled  his  heart  beat  like  a  strong  ceaseless  wave 
within  his  breast,  giving  him  an  almost  unbearable  pain, 
and  he  never  dreamt  but  that  she  knew.  In  the  very 
effort  to  control  himself,  his  voice  was,  curiously,  harsh 
when  he  spoke  to  her;  and  while  the  poor  child  trembled 
at  the  rude  accents,  her  faltering  reply  aroused  in  the 
big,  tender-hearted  fellow  a  wild  feeling  that  was  half  ex- 
quisite pity,  and  half  hate.  Ah  !  if  he  had  only  spoken 
then,  the  grim  tragedy  of  his  life  might  have  been  spared 
him. 

One  bleak  night  in  autumn  a  sound  outside  drew  him 
to  the  door,  and  opening  it,  he  stood  listening. 

"  John  Conan's  calves  are  in  the  clover-field,"  be 
said ;  "  go  and  put  them  out." 

Rose  lifted  her  timid  blue  eyes  to  him  questioningly. 

"  Do  you  hear  me  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  But  I'm  afraid,"  she  murmured ;  "  it's  so  dark, 
an' " 

He  pointed  his  finger  to  the  open  door  and  the  black 
stormy  night  outside. 

'  Go,"  he  repeated  fiercely,  turning  to  his  chair,  and 
lifting  his  pipe  off  the  shelf,  and  the  girl  passed  into  the 
darkness  without  another  word. 

What  madness  was  on  him  that  he  had  spoken  to  the 
little  girl,  and  sent  her  on  such  an  errand  ?  he  asked  him- 
self when  she  had  gone.       He  had  been  conscious  of  a 


68  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

strange,  sore  sensation  all  day,  since  at  Crebilly  Fair, 
that  forenoon,  Tom  M'Mullan  had  proposed  a  match  be- 
tween her  and  his  son  Jack,  one  of  the  wildest  young 
scamps  in  the  whole  countryside,  and  the  unreasoning 
jealousy  grew  and  grew  until  he  had  wreaked  his  pain 
in  vengeance  on  his  poor  Rosie's  unoffending  head. 

"  Oh  !  amn't  I  the  queer,  ungrateful  fool,"  he  mut- 
tered, "  to  trate  the  wee  lass  this  way." 

An  hour  passed,  he  waiting  every  moment  to  hear  her 
footfall  on  the  threshold,  and  his  mother  speculating 
comfortably  that  she  had  gone  in  for  a  gossip  to  John 
Conan's.  At  last  he  could  bear  his  regret  and  the  sus- 
pense no  longer,  and  went  out  to  seek  her. 

It  was  only  a  step  or  two  to  the  clover-field,  and 
reaching  the  low  stone  wall  he  called  to  her  eagerly  in 
the  darkness.  The  startled  calves,  still  enjoying  their 
forbidden  banquet,  lowed  back  in  answer. 

He  vaulted  the  gate,  every  step  of  the  way  familiar  to 
him  by  night  as  by  noon,  and  called  anxiously  and  long. 
Then  he  remembered  his  mother's  surmise,  and  turned 
across  the  field  to  Conan's. 

There  was  no  little  Rosie  sitting  with  the  laughing 
girls  grouped  together  in  the  corner,  over  a  quilting 
frame,  and  in  response  to  his  husky  demand  a  couple  of 
Conan's  young  sons  volunteered  to  accompany  him  on  his 
search — Hugh,  his  brother,  being  away  for  the  night  in 
a  market  town  many  miles  off. 

He  walked  on,  quickly,  in  the  direction  of  the  bog, 
guided  only  by  his  intimate  knowledge  of  the  treacherous 
path  that  wound  like  a  serpent  across  the  marshy  wind- 
swept surface.  He  heard  the  small  waves  beat  against 
each  other  with  a  faint  sad  sound,  while  overhead  not 
one  solitary  star  glimmered,  to  light  his  heart  with  hope- 
fulness.    Through  the  terrible  night,  and  into  the  dawn, 


THE    WEE    GRAY    WOMAN.  69 

his  frantic  search  continued,  calling  her  name  in  a  hoarse 
agony  that  wrung  the  souls  of  those  who  heard  him. 

"  Rosie,  Rosie,  my  little  girl,  it's  Jamie's  callin.'  Ah  ! 
come,  can't  ye,  an'  don't  be  hidin'  there.  Don't  ye  hear 
me    darlin',    it's    Jamie,    an'  the  supper's  waitin'  on  us. 

Let   Conan's   calves   go they're    always  a  trouble  to 

somebody,  but  you  come  home.  Here,  take  my  han'  " — 
stretching  out  his  arms  into  the  empty  shadows — "  take 
it,  love,  an'  don't  be  afeard,  nothin'  can  touch  ye,  pulse 
o'  my  heart,  when  I'm  beside  ye,  Rosie!     Rosie!  ' 

And  so  on  through  the  dreary  hours,  over  the  wild 
bogland,  his  voice  rang  in  pitiful  entreaty,  until  jagged 
streaks  of  golden  red  llamed  like  trailing  banners  in  the 
East,  and  the  birds,  wide-awake,  took  up  in  a  chorus, 
clear-tongued  and  grateful,  the  morning  song ;  but  alas ! 
for  him,  whose  song-bird  had  Uown  afar,  and  for  whom 
the  dawn  henceforth  should  hold  no  radiance,  nor  the 
rose-llushed  mellow  evening  any  passion. 

Yet  his  frantic  cry  broke  in  upon  the  happy  choir, 
and  the  blackbird  and  thrush,  from  hedge  and  beechen- 
tree,  watched  him  staggering  home  in  the  sunshine,  mur- 
muring through  lips  that  scarcely  knew  the  words  they 
uttered — "  Rosie,  Rosie,  girl  dear,  come  home.,, 

Some  hours  later  a  turf -cutter,  crossing  the  burn  to 
his  work,  caught  a  gleam  of  something  bright  under  the 
cold  running  water.  It  was  little  Rosie's  fair  head  lying 
against  the  stones  in  the  shade  of  the  drooping  sally- 
trees,  whither  through  the  darkness,  blinded  by  her  sor- 
row, she  had  wandered  to  her  death. 

Jamie  Boyson  aged  suddenly  after  that.  When  the 
friends  of  his  boyhood  had  grown  into  sturdy,  middle- 
aged  men,  strong  and  hearty,  he  was  already  old,  with  a 
gloom  upon  him  that  no  smile  was  ever  known  to  lighten. 
In  time,  when  his  mother  died,  and  Hugh  had  married, 


70 


THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 


he  grew  unable  to  bear  the  sound  of  children's  chatter 
through  the  rooms  where  he  had  once  hoped  to  see  his 
own  little  ones  at  play,  and  came  to  live  his  life  alone  in 
the  cabin  by  the  burnside,  from  whence  he  could  watch 
the  very  spot  where  poor  Rosie's  gentle  head  had  laiu 
under  the  clear  cold  ripples. 

So  the  country  folk,  noting  his  absent  dim  blue  eyes, 
and  wandering  talk  about  the  Wee  Gray  Woman,  grew 
to  believe  that  it  was  little  Rosie's  ghost  come  to  bear 
him  company  until  the  call  should  sound  for  him,  and 
his  broken  and  desolate  heart  should  find  peace. 

That  was  many,  many  years  ago;  and,  perhaps,  they 
have  met  long  since  in  heaven,  where  Jamie  Boyson, 
young,  and  straight,  and  strong  again,  with  all  the  bitter- 
ness gone  from  his  heart,  has  taken  little  Rosie  in  his 
arms  and  told  her  the  truth  at  last. 


CDe  Singing  Women  of  Corp, 


THE  SINGING  WOMEN  OF  TORY. 


TORY  lies  out  in  the  blue  Atlantic  where  the  tides 
are  strong  and  the  currachs  go  in  danger.  A 
long  narrow  island  it  is — on  the  ocean-side  pre- 
senting a  rock  wall  which  rises  out  of  the  waves  like  a 
line  of  towers,  black  and  forbidding.  On  the  land  side 
the  fertile  patches  slope  to  a  stony  beach,  and  here  the 
fishermen's  boats  are  gathered  high  up  from  the  reach  of 
the  waters.  Round  the  ruins  of  St.  Colum's  Tower,  with 
its  broken  cross,  cluster  the  cabins  that  make  the  village 
— poor  storm-beaten  homes  wherein  melancholy  finds  a 
steadier  abiding  place  than  mirth.  Over  on  the  main- 
land, separated  from  Tory  by  a  stretch  of  turbulent  bil- 
lows, Horn  Head  looms  black  above  the  dark  surges, 
while  further  round  the  coast  the  shining  sand-hills  of 
Dunfanaghy  and  the  strands  of  Falcarragh  make  a  clear 
belt  of  whiteness  like  a  strip  of  neutral  ground  between 
land  and  sea.  On  a  day  of  mist,  which  is  frequent,  the 
pleasant  green  hills  beyond  there  are  hidden  with  the 
stately  peak  of  Errigal,  and  then  the  dreary  desolation 
of  sky  and  ocean  lays  its  clutch  upon  the  hearts  of  those 
who  dwell  on  that  lonely  island.  Winter  cuts  them 
adrift  from  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  the  slow  days  pass 
ia  a  gloomy  monotony  until  the  gray  heaven  grows 
dappled  again  with  the  coming  of  spring. 

A  man's  voice  is  never  heard  in  song  in  Tory.  It  is 
only  the  women  who  sing  there,  by  the  firesides  when  the 
storms  are  abroad,  or  in  the  summer  gloamings  when  the 


74  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

sea-haze  creeps  round  crag  and  uplands,  and  the  moon 
sails  placidly  through  her  realm  of  stars.  Then  one  may- 
hear  a  sweet  faint  chorus  float  on  the  wind  as  the  cailins 
go  arm  in  arm  crooning  the  old  Gaelic  airs  with  their 
haunting  words  that  tell  of  love  and  hate  and  death. 
The  men  sit  on  the  rocks  listening  silently  as  they  flit  by 
like  shadows,  but  no  strong,  deep  voice  joins  in  the  fine 
tremulous  notes  that  die  out  as  silvery  as  the  soft  piping 
of  a  bird. 

In  the  old  war  times  the  men  sang  in  Tory — rousing 
battle  strains  that  echoed  far  across  the  waters  and  made 
the  gulls  pause  in  bewildered  circles  as  they  heard.  And 
those  brave  chants  were  handed  down  the  centuries  from 
father  to  son,  while  the  island  had  its  king  and  it3  inde- 
pendent laws.  In  his  little  territory  the  king— like 
greater  monarchs — had  his  harper  and  seanachie  to  fan 
the  flame  of  courage  with  tale  and  ballad  of  the  fierce 
past,  or  to  soothe  his  weary  senses  with  gentler  dreams 
through  which  the  fair  faces  of  women  wandered.  Those 
were  the  prosperous  days  of  Tory.  With  the  going  of 
its  kings  the  old  customs  went,  and  its  glory. 

There  was  no  king  to  rule  wisely  and  well  when  the 
dread  famine  fell  upon  the  people.  It  seemed  as  if  God's 
hand  was  lifted  against  them,  for  the  fish  deserted  their 
fishing-ground,  and  the  edible  birds  avoided  the  cliffs 
where  they  had  been  wont  to  build.  The  green  things 
growing  in  the  fields  died  from  the  drouth  that  followed 
the  heavy  cold  rains,  and  food  grew  scarcer  until 
nothing  remained  save  the  sea-wrack  and  the  limpets 
clinging  to  the  rocks.  Men  and  women  went  about  list- 
less and  idle,  the  glare  of  fever  in  their  hungry  eyes; 
while  the  little  children  sickened  and  mercifully  died. 
In  those  days  the  songs  were  hushed,  and  one  heard  only 
lamentations  or  the  shrill  keening  for  the  dead. 


THE    SINGING    WOMEN    OF    TORY.  75 

It  was  the  gauntncss  in  Mary  Roarty's  face  that  hurt 
Eoin  Macllugh  more  than  any  pangs  of  hunger.  He 
saw  her  fading  clay  by  clay,  and  his  anguish  at  the  sight 
was  like  a  sword  thrust  through  his  heart.  How  could 
he  save  her,  how  could  he  spare  her?  This  was  his  one 
cry.  She,  his  own  cailin  deas  (pretty  girl) — the  treasure 
cf  his  soul.  Was  death,  grim  white  Death,  to  prove  the 
stronger  lover  and  drag  her  from  his  arms'? 

Eoin  was  known  far  and  near  as  the  Singing  Fisher- 
man. Through  his  blood  generations  of  bards  made 
music,  and  the  beauty  of  his  voice  played  upon  the  senses 
of  his  listeners  as  the  sweet  south  wind  might  play  upon 
the  strings  of  a  harp.  It  evoked  a  silent  echo  which 
hovered  between  joy  and  sorrow,  and  no  one  knew  which 
feeling  was  the  most  to  be  desired.  How  one  who  had 
toiled  on  the  sea  from  childhood  had  escaped  injury  to 
that  exquisite  voice  was  a  marvel,  yet  it  was  so,  and  when 
he  sang  the  tender  Gaelic  ballads  of  his  own  making  no 
eye  could  keep  the  tears  from  falling.  Many  of  his  songs 
were  made  on  Mary  Roarty.  "  Mary  of  the  Glinting 
Ringlets"  he  called  her;  or  "Little  Mary  of  the 
Lambs  " — in  memory  of  the  days  when  they  herded  to- 
gether on  the  bare  headlands  where  is  the  mound  that  is 
called  the  House  of  Balor.  "  Mary,  my  Swan  of  Tender- 
ness," was  another  of  the  dear  names  he  had  for  his  love. 
When  the  famine  had  dealt  its  will  on  her  there  was 
scarce  any  beauty  left  cither  in  her  ringlets  or  in  her 
young  face,  but  to  Eoin  she  was  fairer  than  ever  in  her 
piteous  dependence.  The  food  that  kept  her  alive  was 
his  giving,  and  his  poor  home  awaited  her  coming — had 
awaited  her  for  many  a  day.  There,  in  his  poet-fancies, 
I13  saw  her,  seated  by  the  fireside,  like  a  star  shining 
through  the  smoke  from  the  smouldering  peat,  and  with 
the  love  in  her  face  glorifying  the  bareness  of  her  setting. 


76  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

Sometimes  he  dreamed  of  a  child  in  her  arms;  a  little 
child  with  the  mother's  bright  hair,  and  a  hint  of  the 
father's  strength  in  the  tiny  symmetry  of  its  limbs.  He 
could  never  make  up  his  mind  as  to  whether  he  wished 
the  dream-child  a  boy  or  a  girl.  In  his  pride  he  thought 
he  would  like  the  boy  better ;  that  he  might  train  him 
up  a  fearless  fisherman,  with  a  steady  nerve  that  could 
dare  the  highest  and  most  dangerous  crags  in  search  of 
the  eggs  of  the  gannet  and  other  wild  fowl.  But  then, 
the  girl — the  gentle,  clinging  girl.  She  would  have  his 
dear  Mary's  ways,  and  would  go  about  like  a  smaller  star 
in  her  mother's  orbit,  adding  new  radiance  to  their 
home.  He  could  picture  her  with  her  knitting  in  her 
hand,  bending  to  count  the  stitches  by  the  light  of  the 
fire,  in  all  the  sedate  industriousness  which  foreshadowed 
the  woman  in  the  child.  And  he  knew  what  he  would 
call  her.  Her  name  should  be  Aislinn,  which  in  the 
poetical  Gaelic  means  "  a  dream." 

But  Eoin's  hopes  were  very  far  from  realisation.  Mary 
would  not  leave  her  widowed  father,  nor  would  he  share 
her  devotedness  with  another.  Now  that,  withered  with 
the  famine,  burnt  with  the  fever,  he  hovered  on  the 
verge  of  the  grave,  her  tender  services  were  more  essen- 
tial to  him  than  ever.  Worn  to  a  shadow,  she  nursed 
him  through  his  death-sickness  uncomplainingly,  and, 
seeing  the  emaciation  in  every  line  of  her  face  and  figure, 
many  there  were  to  prophesy  that  never  would  Mary 
Roarty  find  a  grey  streak  in  her  glinting  hair. 

When  the  sods  had  covered  her  father  help  came  to 
Mary.  A  relative,  living  on  the  mainland,  had  heard  of 
her  distress,  and  brought  a  kind  heart  to  the  desolate 
girl's  relief.  She  offered  her  a  home  in  the  green,  sunny 
country  that  lay  beyond  the  guardian  hills  across  the 
strait,  and  Mary,   won   by  the  motherly  warmth  of  her 


THE    SINGING    WOMEN    OF    TORY.  77 

embrace,  accepted.     It  was  the  sad  parting  then  between 
the  young  people. 

"  Mary,  a  mhuimin,"  said  Eoin,  as  they  stood  together 
on  the  uplands  with  the  sea-wind  blowing  about  them, 
"  put  your  hand  in  mine  and  say  the  words  after  me  : 

"  Neither  life  shall  come  between, 
Nor  death, 
Nor  silver's  sheen, 
Not  bitter  breath 
Of  evil  tongues 
Shall  tear  apart 
My  heart — your  heart." 

"  Say  it,  my  share  of  the  world,  say  it."  And  she  said 
it  after  him,  slowly  and  tearfully. 

"  Oh,  my  God,  Mary  a  stoir  (my  treasure),  the  hunger 
was  nothing  to  this,  nor  seeing  the  face  of  death.  It  is 
my  heart  you  are  rending  from  my  bosom,  and  your  little 
hands  are  round  it  clutching  it,  bruising  it.  They  are 
such  little  hands — they  should  be  kind  and  soft." 

She  clung  to  him  wildly.  "  I  do  not  want  to  go,  Eoin, 
nm  chroidhe  (my  heart).  I  want  to  stay  with  you 
always." 

'  And  go  barefooted  over  the  rocks,  a  stoir,  when  it  is 
in  the  little  warm  shoes  you  should  be  walking.  And 
living  on  the  fish  and  coarse  meal  from  year's  end  to 
year's  end,  when  the  good  fresh  meat  is  beyond  there  for 
your  eating.  Ah,  no,  no !  Tis  in  Erin  anyways  my 
thoughts  will  be  after  you.  They  will  be  following  you 
through  the  grand  streets  and  the  grand  houses,  and  'tis 
I  will  be  proud  to  think  my  girl  is  seeing  all  the  beauti- 
ful sights.  Maybe  then,  when  I  gather  the  silver,  it  is 
after  my  thoughts  I  will  be  going.  Never  fear,  Mary 
a  ruin  (my  secret  love),  but  my  feet  will  find  the  way  to 
you." 


78  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

"  There  will  be  no  one  in  Erin  to  make  songs  on  me," 
said  Mary  wistfully. 

Eoin  smiled  through  his  grief.  "  Better  so,  cailin  deas, 
better  so.  It  would  not  be  right  that  there  should  be, 
for  the  new  songs  might  put  the  old  ones  out  of  your 
memory." 

She  laid  her  head  against  his  shoulder  with  a  cry. 

"  There  will  be  many  a  night  here  if  God  spares  me," 
Eoin  went  on,  "  when  I  am  out  in  my  boat  drifting  over 
the  dark  water  that  I  will  be  making  new  songs  on  you, 
Mary  mo  chroidhe!  Making  them  in  my  mind  that  they 
may  be  ready  for  the  singing  to  you  when  I  start  for  the 
big  town.  And  they  will  be  finer  songs  than  any  I  made 
before,  because  pain  will  be  in  them  as  well  as  joy,  and 
I  have  learned  now  that  pain  is  stronger  and — even 
though  it  stabs  one's  heart — more  to  be  sought  than  any 
joy  for  through  it  we  can  guess  the  depth  of  love.  Love 
is  like  the  great  far-reaching  sea  there,  and  pain  is  like 
the  lead  that  we  send  down,  down  to  find  how  deep  it  is. 
I  have  thought  of  all  this  since  you  talked  of  going, 
Mary  a  dhilis  (my  dear),  and  because  of  the  pain  I  suf- 
fered I  have  learnt  how  much  I  love  you.  It  is  love  in 
me  that  bids  you  go,  that  bids  you  take  to  the  strange 
life  in  which  I  will  not  be.  If  I  did  not  love  you,  I  would 
keep  you  here  in  the  poor  island,  where  you  would  never 
have  any  comfort  like  what  is  in  store  for  you  in  the  rich 
town.     That  is  the  truth,  God  be  my  judge." 

Mary  had  been  gazing  at  him  with  a  half-frightened 
look  of  wonder  while  he  was  speaking.  This  was  surely 
a  new  Eoin,  this  man  who  talked  unlike  anything  she 
had  heard  in  her  life  before.  And  in  his  eyes  there  was 
a  curious  sad  clearness,  as  if  he  saw  beyond  her  sight, 
some  vision  that  was  not  altogether  a  beatific  one.  She 
gave  a  little  shudder. 


THE    SINGING    WOMEN    OF    TORY.  79 

"  What  is  it,  pulse  of  my  heart  ?  "  he  whispered  in  her 
ear.     "  Is  it  cold  you  are  ?  '      Then  he  drew  her  closer. 

She  clasped  her  arms  about  him  and  buried  her  face 
where  the  blue  fishing  jacket  fell  away  from  his  tanned 
neck.  He  could  feel  her  heart-beats  upon  his  heart  and 
the  sobs  that  stirred  her.  Yet  it  was  more  emotion  at 
the  impending  change  in  her  fortunes  that  had  unnerved 
her,  rather  than  regret  at  leaving  her  lover  and  her 
home.  Eoin  did  not  guess  this.  In  the  simplicity  of 
his  own  great  passion  he  fancied  she  suffered  as  he  him- 
self was  suffering.  He  bent  his  head  until  his  cheek 
touched  hers,  tear-wet  and  deathly  cold.  They  stood 
thus  for  a  time  in  silence  while  the  night-wind  blew  chill 
— and  salty,  in  from  the  ocean.  It  was  a  quiet  night,  a 
night  of  stars.  The  dirge  of  the  sea  was  so  faint  that  it 
scarcely  reached  their  ears,  and  the  cry  of  a  gull,  almost 
as  faint,  sounded  like  the  beat  of  a  far-off  bell  as  it 
flapped  its  lonely  way  across  the  waves.  Eoin  felt  the 
cool  peace  envelop  him  like  a  blessing.  The  fever  left 
his  veins,  his  wild  sorrow  became  soothed.  He  gently 
raised  Mary's  fair  head  from  its  resting  place  and  gazed 
long  and  earnestly  into  her  eyes.  Then  he  gave  a  sigh, 
and  without  a  word  their  trembling  lips  clung  together 
in  the  parting  kiss. 

With  the  spring  the  famine  and  sickness  went  from 
Tory.  The  fish  came  back  in  shoals,  and  the  birds  re- 
turned to  their  breeding  places.  It  was  as  if  a  curse  had 
been  lifted.  Eoin  felt  happier  than  he  had  been  since 
Mary  left,  and  his  songs  were  heard  again  as  he  rowed 
home  in  the  twilight  or  in  the  dawn  trailing  the  full  net 
behind  his  currach.  He  began  to  put  by  a  bright  bit  of 
silver  now  and  then.  And  it  was  noticed  that  he  had 
the  brisk  expectant  air  of  one  with  some  great  purpose 
in  view. 


80  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

Then  the  blow  fell.  One  of  the  islanders,  returning 
from  Erin,  had  a  wonderful  tale  to  relate  of  a  wedding 
he  had  seen — the  wedding  of  Mary  Roarty.  Eoin's  Mary 
of  the  Lambs,  little  Mary  of  the  Ringlets,  had  married 
an  elderly  farmer — a  fine  match — so  the  man  said,  and 
had  gone  South  with  him  to  his  home.  Eoin  was  mend- 
ing his  nets  in  the  midst  of  a  group  of  fishermen  when 
the  other  man  told  the  story.  He  did  not  cry  out,  nor 
cease  his  work.  Only  his  hands  went  as  numb  as  death 
so  that  he  could  not  feel  the  cords,  and  his  heart  turned 
to  a  thing  of  stone  within  him. 

That  night  he  was  out  late  in  a  biting  gale  of  wind  and 
heavy  rain.  His  catch  was  small,  for  he  handled  his 
lines  unskilfully,  and  it  was  a  stupid  face  he  turned  to 
the  talk  of  his  comrades.  They  whispered  a  little  among 
themselves  when,  ere  half  the  night  was  through,  he  set 
his  prow  for  the  shore,  and  rowed  off  alone.  There  was 
no  song  with  him ;  he  leaned  over  the  oars  almost  double, 
scarce  heeding  the  way  he  went.  So  the  others  saw  as 
they  watched  him  out  of  sight. 

The  morning  found  him  stretched  on  his  straw  bed 
raving  in  the  fever.  He  had  one  name  only  on  his 
parched  lips.  "  Mary,  Mary,"  he  cried  unceasingly,  "  I 
am  coming — coming,"  and  he  would  break  into  snatches 
of  song,  hoarse  and  untuned.  During  the  weary  days 
and  nights  of  watching  those  who  tended  him  sent  many 
a  bitter  thought  after  the  girl.  His  recovery  was  slow ; 
slower  than  is  usual  in  the  case  of  youth.  "  Some  memory 
is  vexing  him,"  the  doctor  from  the  mainland  said. 
"  There  is  a  weight  of  sorrow  on  his  heart  and  his  brain 
is  tortured  with  it.  I  fear  he  will  never  be  the  same 
man  again." 

While  he  was  in  his  convalescence  Eoin  made  a  new 
song.     He  had  a  very  sweet  air  for  it.     The  words  were 


THE    SINGING    WOMEN    OF    TORY.  81 

sad  as  separation.  He  called  it  in  the  Gaelic  An  Cailin 
Treig  Me — The  Girl  who  Forsook  Me,  and  when  he  had 
grown  well  enough  to  move  out  of  doors  he  would  sit  on 
the  stone  beneath  the  window,  and  go  over  the  verses 
monotonously,  half  aloud  and  half  to  himself.  He  never 
mentioned  Mary's  name  now,  but  sometimes  they  found 
him  stretched  upon  the  headlands,  his  lace  buried  in  the 
sea-salt  grass,  lamenting,  like  one  possessed.  Then  they 
knew  that  his  grief  was  ever  as  a  gaping  wound. 

By    degrees    his    mind    seemed  to  grow  more  clouded, 
until  he  had  no  memory  for  anything  save  the  words  of 
his  song.     He  wandered  over  the  island  in  all  weathers, 
from    dawn    to    nightfall,    singing,  and  the  men  hearing 
that  melancholy  voice  forever  chanting  the  caoine  of  its 
buried  hopes  were  forced  to  shudder  at  the  sound.     They 
might  foregather  to  listen  to  the  seanachies  tell  the  old 
rutins  their  fathers  had  told  before  them  of  Torry  in  its 
ancient  days ;  but  the  music  that  was  wont  to  be  a  charm 
to  their  ears  at  such  times  fell  strangely  and  suddenly 
out  of  repute  with  them.     It  grew  to  be  almost  a  lost  art. 
Perhaps  the  gk>om  born  of  the  famine  had  scarcely  left 
their  souls;    or  the  abrupt  speech   of   Coll  O'Heggarty 
might  have  been  the  cause.     "  Oh,  let  those  pipes  cease," 
he  cried  out  once  in  the  midst  of  a  gathering.       "  Thev 
remind  me  of  Eoin  MacHugh.    He  went  past  me  to-night 
like  a  ghost,  and  the  wind  shrieking  round  him.     He  was 
singing  loud  to  deaden  the  noise  of  the  wind.       There ! 
listen,  listen  !     It  is  surely  enough  music  we  are  having 
when  that  wail  of  his  is  never  silent  on  Tory." 

•         •         •  •         •-.         .         .         .         .         , 

It  was  seven  years  after  Eoin's  trouble  fell  upon  him 
that  one  day  a  woman  landed  from  a  currach  on  the 
island.  A  slender  fair  woman  she  was :  too  young  for 
the  sorrow  on  her  face. 

F 


8^  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

"  Take  me  to  Eoin  MacHugh,"  she  said  to  the  man 
who  was  the  first  to  speak  to  her.  "  Take  me  to  lAm  if 
hv1  is  alive.     If  he  is  dead,  take  me  to  his  grave." 

"  He  is  alive,"  he  said,  "  but  his  mind  is  gone." 

She  hushed  him  with  uplifted  hand.  "  I  know,  T  have 
known  for  years.  But  I  could  not  come.  I  was  not 
free." 

"  Why  are  you  here  now,  Mary  Roarty  ?  " 

"  Because  I  am  free.     My  man  is  dead." 

"  Christ's  pity  on  you,  woman  dear." 

"  No,  no,"  she  almost  cried.     "  Do  not  say  it.     I  want 
no  pity.     I  deserve  no  pity.     I  am  free,     Do  you  hear  ? ' 
she  shook  the  man's  arm  roughly,  "  I  am  free." 

He  looked  at  her  wonderingly  :  "  You  will  find  him  up 
yonder  at  the  House  of  Balor,"  he  said,  and  pointed  to- 
wards the  cliffs. 

She  walked  away  quickly.  When  she  came  near  the 
rath  she  heard  the  faint  voice  intoning  its  sad  song  of 
her  own  perfidy.  The  plaintive  words  came  very  clear 
on  the  keen  sea-air. 

"  O  my  sorrow,  my  bitter  sorrow,  that  I  am  without  her, 
That  was  more  to  me  than  the  sun  in  a  speckled  sky, 
Than  the  safe  white  sands  to  a  storm-tossed  boat, 
Or  the  cool  grasses  to  feet  grown  weary." 

Mary  caught  her  breath.  He  did  not  perceive  her,  so 
she  stood  listening,  gazing  at  the  forlorn  figure  with  a 
world  of  compassionate  love  in  her  eyes.  His  were  star- 
ing straight  out  towards  the  blue  rim  of  the  ocean  where 
the  sky  came  down  to  meet  the  waves. 

"  Eoin,"  Mary's  voice  was  sharp  with  suppressed 
anguish,  "  Eoin  a  ghrddh  "  (my  lovt). 

He  turned  mechanically  at  the  sound  of  his  name.  His 
unseeing  eyes  roved  over  her. 


THE    SINGING    WOMEN    OF    TORY.  83 

"  Eoin."     She  came  nearer  and  sat  beside  him  on  the 
rock.     "  Do  you  not  know  me  ?  ' 
He  continued  his  interrupted  song. 

"  Tis  she  was  fairer  than  wheat  in  the  ripe  sheaf, 
The  little  ringlets  of  her  fine  and  flowing." 

"  Oh,  Eoin  mo  cliroidhe"  the  woman  cried  passion- 
ately, throwing  her  arms  about  him  and  drawing  the 
weather-blanched  head  to  her  bosom.  "  Have  I  brought 
you  to  this1?     Have  I  brought  you  to  this?  ' 

He  drew  himself  away  hastily,  looking  at  her  with  a 
sudden  frown. 

'  My  God,  to  think  that  you  would  be  shrinking   from 
me,"    she   waiJed,   taking   his    emaciated    hand    in    hers. 
'  Eoin,  'tis  little  Mary  of  the  Lambs  that  is  speaking — 
your  own  little  Mary." 

"  Dead,  dead,"  he  muttered  hoarsely. 

"  No,  not  dead,  heait's  dearest.  She  only  went  astray, 
foolish  and  weak  and  easily  flattered  that  she  was.  She 
has  come  back  to  you." 

•  Dead,"  he  repeated  again,  his  vague  gaze  wandering 
from  her  face  to  the  bunch  of  white  moor  grass  he  toyed 
with. 

"  Poor  soul,  no.  Here  is  Mary  beside  you,  loving  )  ou 
above  all  the  world.  And  she  never  ceased  to  love  you, 
for  all  that  she  took  the  other  man." 

He  pushed  her  from  him  petulantly,  and  resumed  his 
song. 

'  If  I  were  a  shepherd  on  the  brown  mountain, 
'Tis  I  would  be  seeking  her  in  the  sheltered  places." 

Mary  wrung  her  hands,  tears  streaming  down  her 
cheeks.  Eoin  was  smiling  as  he  sang.  She  followed  his 
look  out  to  where  the  sun  was  sinking,  a  globe  of  fire, 


84  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

into  the  sea.  The  line  of  glory  its  radiance  made  across 
the  water  seemed  a  pathway  between  heaven  and  earth 
for  the  brown  currachs  dancing  there. 

"  If  I  were  a  boat  on  the  green  billows, 
'Tis  I  would  rise  higher  than  the  foam  to  greet  her," 

went  on  the  plaintive  strain.  The  shadow  of  the  rath 
the  islanders  know  as  the  House  of  Balor  fell  upon  them 
now — a  dark  shadow,  heralding  the  coming  twilight. 
Then  a  cold  wind  crept  inward  from  the  ocean  and  the 
thin  gray  mass  of  the  upland  stirred  and  murmured  rest- 
lessly. Eoin  shivered  as  the  damp  mist  gathered  around 
them.  Seeing  this  Mary  rose  and  wrapped  the  black 
cloak  she  was  wearing  about  his  shoulders.  She  noticed 
then  how  his  figure  had  shrunken  in  the  fisherman's  suit 
of  rough  blue  homespun. 

Slipping  her  arm  through  his  she  raised  him  from  his 
seat.  "  Eoin,  come  home  with  me,"  she  said  gently. 
"  You  are  my  only  care  now.     Come  dear  love,  come." 

He  suffered  her  to  lead  him  down  the  hill  to  the  cot- 
tage where  he  dwelt.  Here  Mary  found  the  old  woman 
who  tended  him.  Her  name  was  Aoife  (Eefa)  Ni  Bhroin, 
and  she  was  reputed  to  be  very  wise.  She  was  cowering 
over  the  smouldering  peats  when  they  entered.  The 
smoke  hung  thick  about  the  rafters  as  she  turned  at  the 
sound  of  their  footsteps,  so  that  her  dim  eyes  peering 
through  it  did  not  at  first  recognise  the  new-comer. 

"  I  am  Mary  Roarty."  The  diffident  accents  smote 
familiarly  upon  old  Aoife's  ear.  "  I  am  come  back  to 
Tory." 

Aoife  drew  nearer  until  she  came  close  to  the  pair,  still 
standing  arm  in  arm. 

"  Is  it  really  you,  Mary  Roarty  ?  ;  There  was  menace 
in  the  question.  "  Have  you  come  back  to  end  the  work 
you  began  ?  " 


THE    SINGING    WOMEN    OF    TORY.  85 

"  Oh,  Aoife,"  Mary  cried  tremulously.  "  I  have  come 
back  to  undo  the  harm,  with  the  help  of  God."  She 
dropped  Eoin's  arm  and  caught  that  of  the  old  woman. 

"  How  can  you  do  it,  girl?  Look  at  him,  look  at  him 
well.  The  wreck  of  the  young  strong  man  he  was,  poor, 
grief-crazed,  the  pity  of  the  island — and  all  through  you. 
Can  you  bring  peace  to  him  who  has  so  long  known  un- 
rest, or  light  to  his  clouded  mind?  The  task  will  be 
hard ;  for  heart-break  and  cold  and  hunger  have  done 
their  share.  Ay,  'tis  often  he  and  I  have  had  little  to 
keep  us  alive,  though  all  were  kind  and  spared  what  they 
could.  No,  you  have  come  to  see  him  die.  I  had  a 
vision  of  your  coining  night  after  night — just  as  you  were 
standing  there,  and  in  the  vision  he  lay  at  your  feet. 
The  blight  of  death  is  on  him  even  now.  I  see  it.  Do 
you  not  see  it  too,  girl  ?     What  have  you  done  to  him  ?  " 

The  outburst  of  her  anger  ended  in  a  shrill  wail  as  she 
ran  towards  Eoin  where  he  leant  against  the  wall,  tremb- 
ling and  very  white. 

"  Come  to  the  fire,  a  leanbh  mo  chroidhe  " — (O  child  of 
my  heart !) — her  shrill  voice  had  become  soft  as  a 
mother's  whispering  over  her  child.  "  Come  and  get 
warm,  a  dhilis."  He  would  not  stir.  Mary  knelt  down 
suddenly  on  the  uneven  floor  and  lifted  her  hands  to 
heaven. 

"  Give  him  back  his  mind,  O  God,  dear  God,"  she  sup- 
plicated wildly;  "give  him  back  what  I  helped  to  take 
away.     And,  if  I  may,  let  me  suffer  in  his  stead." 

Then  as  she  knelt,  a  strange  thing  happened.  She 
glanced  towards  Eoin  to  find  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her. 
The  intelligence  had  returned  to  them,  and  there  was 
a  puzzled  frown  between  his  brows. 

"Who  is  it?"  ho  asked,  passing  his  hand  across  his 
eyes  in  a  dazed  fashion. 


86  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

"  It  is  Mary  Roarty — the  woman  who  betrayed  you," 
cried  old  Aoife  bitterly. 

"  Mary — Roarty."    He  seemed  unable  to  comprehend. 

"  Yes,  Mary  Roarty,  who  left  you  for  the  rich  widow- 
man." 

He  looked  down  at  Mary's  bent  head,  where  she  still 
knelt  on  the  floor. 

"  Little  Mary,"  he  said  slowly,  like  one  feeling  his 
way,  "  Little  Mary  of  the  Ringlets?  " 

Mary  rose  to  her  feet  and  would  have  rushed  to  his 
arms. 

"  Little  Mary,  who  left  and  betrayed  you,"  cried  Aoife 
again. 

His  face  changed  and  grew  strained  with  anger.  "  T 
remember,  I  remember  now,"  he  spoke  in  a  hushed, 
horror-stricken  tone.     "  She  broke  my  heart." 

"  Oh,  Eoin,  forgive  me,  forgive,"  wailed  Mary.  "  I 
am  free  now.  I  have  come  back  to  you.  Let  me  make 
amends." 

"  You  broke  my  heart." 

"  Do  not  say  it,  Eoin ;  my  sorrow  is  heavy  enough 
without  hearing  that  from  your  lips." 

"  What  is  it  to  my  sorrow,  Mary  Roarty  ?  You  broke 
my  heart." 

"  I  have  repented,"  she  wept,  "  repented  with  bitter 
tears.  God  has  forgiveness  for  even  the  worst  of  us  and 
yon — you  who  used  to  be  so  gentle,  Eoin,  are  you  going 
to  let  me  go  forth  without  comfort  and  pardon  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  forgive  you,"  he  answered  drearily,  "  it  is 
too  much  to  ask." 

'*  As  you  hope  for  mercy,  Eoin,  be  kind  to  me.  I  have 
repented  sorely,  God  knows.  My  life  beyond  there  was 
the  hard  life ;  full  of  memories  of  other  times  that  made 
the  days  a  weariness  and  the  nights  an  agony.       Oh ! 


THE    SINGING    WOMEN    OF    TORY.  87 

Eoin  mo  chroidhe,  open  your  heart  to  mine  again,  for  it 
was  the  pain-racked  lonely  heart  I  carried  in  Erin." 

He  turned  abruptly  from  her  clinging  hands,  and 
crossing  quickly  by  her,  entered  his  bedroom,  bolting 
the  door  behind  him. 

"  That  is  your  answer,  Mary  Roarty,"  Aoife  said,  point- 
ing to  the  closed  door.     "  Now  you  may  go." 

Mary  crouched  outside  the  door  and  beat  her  hands 
upon  the  callous  wood.  "  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  only  speak 
one  word  of  forgiveness  and  I  shall  go  out  of  your  sight 
forever.  Just  one  word,  Eoin.  I  cannot  go  until  you 
say  it.     Just  one  word." 

But  no  answer  came.  "  He  never  loved  me,"  she 
moaned,  rocking  to  and  fro.  "  He  never  loved  me." 
Then  she  remembered  remorsefully  their  sad  parting  on 
the  uplands.  "  Oh,  he  did  love  me,  poor  Eoin,  he  must 
have  loved  me.  If  he  had  loved  me  less  he  never  would 
have  suffered  so." 

She  rose  stiffly  to  her  feet  and  sat  in  his  chair  by  the 
dying  fire.  The  night  came  down  and  its  dark  hours 
glided  over  her  bowed  head,  but  she  did  not  heed  their 
passing.  A  stupor  of  misery  was  on  her,  through  which 
the  heavy  breathing  of  old  Aoife,  asleep  in  her  corner, 
seemed  like  the  loud  sough  of  wind  on  a  night  of  storm. 
Its  monotonous  rise  and  fall  lulled  Mary  to  sleep  like- 
wise. At  length  a  chill  touch  upon  her  hand  aroused 
her  from  her  uneasy  slumbers.  She  started  and  stared 
with  wide-open  eyes  into  the  dark. 

'  Mary,"  came  to  her  ears  in  a  faint  whisper. 

The  fear  sprang  from  her  heart  to  her  throat  and 
strangled  her  voice. 

"  Mary  mo  chroidhe." 

At  that  the  spell  upon  her  senses  relaxed  and  she 
leaned  towards  him.     She  could  not  see  him,  ske  only 


88  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

knew  he  was  there  by  her  side  in  the  darkness  holding 
her  hand  in  his. 

"Is  it  you,  Eoin?" 

"  Yes,  pulse  of  my  heart,  it  is  I.  Put  your  arms 
around  me,  Mary,  and  love  me.  Oh,  love  me,  Mary,  love 
me.     I  have  been  so  long  without  your  love." 

"  A  ghrddh  mo  chroidhe,  a  ghrddh,  a  ghrddh!  she 
crooned  the  sweet  words  over  him  piteously.  He  stroked 
her  face  with  his  thin  fingers ;  then  he  laid  his  cold  cheek 
upon  hers  with  a  sob. 

"  They  were  the  cruel,  cruel  years,  Mary  a  stoir,  that 
kept  you  from  me.  Where  were  you,  Mary,  and  where 
was  I  ?  I  do  not  understand.  I  feel  as  if  I  have  awak- 
ened from  a  long  forgetfulness.  Was  it  all  a  dream, 
Mary,  your  going,  and  my  loneliness — a  bad  deceitful 
dream  ?  " 

"  Oh,  my  grief,  it  was  no  dream,  Eoin  dear.  I  was  a 
wicked  girl  who  foolishly  thought  riches  were  happiness 
and  suffered  sore  for  the  thought.  But  now  that  you 
have  forgiven  me,  I  will  be  putting  all  memory  of  those 
black  days  away." 

"  I  spoke  bitter  words,  Mary,  when  you  knelt  on  the 
floor  there,  and  held  out  your  little  hands  to  me.  There 
was  a  strange  hate  in  my  heart,  but  it  is  gone  now,  my 
Mary  of  the  Ringlets.  It  must  have  been  a  part  of  the 
bad  dream.  How  could  I  hate  you  at  all  ?  If  there  was 
any  reason  I  have  forgotten  why." 

1  Do  not  try  to  remember  it  now,  Eoin.  Let  us  think 
of  the  new  happy  life  we  shall  spend  together." 

Yes,  that  will  be  better,"  he  said  contentedly,  "  that 
will  be  better."  He  pondered  a  while.  "  There's  a  song 
running  through  my  head,  Mary :  a  song  I  must  have 
heard  somewhere.     Listen,  a  stoir " 

"  Where  did  I  hear  that  song,  Mary  ?  " 


THE    SINGING    WOMEN    OF    TORY.  89 

Mary's  whole  body  tingled  with  anguish  as  she  list- 
ened. He  was  as  one  groping  for  the  light  in  darkness. 
She  saw  that  his  brain  was  wrestling  with  recollections 
too  complex  for  its  weakness,  and  she  tried  to  change  the 
current  of  his  thoughts. 

"  Oh,"  she  said  gaily,  "  'tis  I  will  be  expecting  great 
songs  from  you  now.  And  all  about  myself,  mind,  or  it 
is  growing  jealous  I  will  be." 

A  pale  cold  gleam  came  creeping  through  the  little 
window.  She  looked  down  at  his  face  upon  her  bosom, 
and  saw  that  he  lay  with  closed  eyes.  Suddenly  he 
started  up,  and  held  his  hand  against  his  ear,  listening. 
c  That  is  God's  voice,"  he  said  joyfully,  turning  to  her 
with  a  smile. 

She  only  heard  a  cock  crowing  faintly  in  the  distance. 

"  I  am  cold,"  he  whispered,  "  and  tired,  Mary." 

She  folded  her  heavy  cloak  close  around  him  as  he  laid 
his  head  back  again  on  her  breast.  After  a  time  she  felt 
that  he  slept,  and  then  the  balm  of  sleep  descended  too 
upon  herself. 

A  scream,  wild,  piercing,  horror-stricken,  recalled  her 
to  waking  life.  She  opened  her  eyes  to  behold  the  face 
of  Aoife  peering  into  hers.  The  old  woman  was  striving 
to  draw  Eoin  from  her  arms. 

"  Let  him  be,"  cried  Mary,  "  he  is  mine  now.  Let 
him  be." 

"  Nay,  but  he  is  God's,"  said  Aoife  solemnly.  "  God 
gave  him  peace  while  you  slept,  and  heeded  not." 


AJ1  through  the  two  days  and  nights  of  Eoin's  wake 
when  Mary  kept  her  place  beside  his  body  and  would  not 
stir,  she  fancied  she  heard  a  voice  singing  the  song  the 
dead  man  sang  on  the  uplands,  on  the  day  of  her  home- 


90 


THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 


coming.  The  words  and  air  were  very  distinct.  They 
beat  on  her  brain  while  she  said  her  Rosary  over  and 
over  for  his  soul  until  she  sometimes  lost  the  trend  of 
her  prayers  listening.  And  even  when  he  was  laid  to 
rest  with  his  kinsfolk  on  the  wind-blown  slope,  the  spirit- 
song  did  not  cease.  It  followed  her  everywhere  she  went, 
until  at  length  she  found  herself  repeating  it  aloud. 

"  God  has  sent  it  for  my  Purgatory/'  she  said.  She 
sang  it  very  faintly,  so  that  deaf  old  Aoife  could  not 
hear,  but  the  girl-children  passing  by,  who  came  to  look 
with  curious  eyes  upon  beautiful  Mary  Roarty,  whose 
cruelty  had  driven  Eoin  MacHugh  astray,  listened  and 
loved  the  song  and  the  singer.  The  only  ease  of  heart 
that  Mary  knew  was  when  she  hearkened  the  doleful 
chant  in  the  sweet  young  lisping  voices;  for  they  took 
pleasure  in  singing  with  her.  So  it  happened  in  time 
that  these  children  crooned  it  over  their  infants  at  the 
breast,  and  that  a  later  generation  of  babies  were  hushed 
to  the  same  lullaby;  though  long  before  then  Mary  of 
the  Ringlets  had  joined  Eoin  beyond  the  gates  of  death. 

And  this  is  why  the  women  only  raise  their  voices  in 
song  on  Tory. 


Sorcba  RuadD's  Croubks. 


SORCHA   RUADH'S  TROUBLES. 


DONEGAL  lias  lost  count  of  her  exiles,  they  have 
been  so  many.  Yet,  in  all  their  wanderings, 
north  or  south,  east  or  west,  the  faith  of  their 
fathers,  and  the  love  of  their  motherland,  have  ever  been 
first  with  them  through  poverty  and  wealth,  and  it  was 
one  of  these — far  away  and  tortured  with  heart-hunger — 
who,  keeping  in  memory  the  homestead  in  the  Finn 
Valley,  that  was  his  birth-place,  sent  in  a  letter  to  the 
old  people  the  sorrowful  crude  little  song  uhat  Sorcha 
Euadh  sang  as  she  stepped  lightly  between  her  wooden 
pails  of  sweet  spring  water — 

''  Farewell  to  Stranorlar  and  Ballybofey — 
These  towns  they  are  beautiful,  gallant,  and  gay ; 
These  towns  they  are  beautiful,  rare  to  be  seen ; 
An'  they're  close  to  Finn  Water,  ]  ;gh  Dreenan  bleach- 
green. 

When  I  think  upon  Dreenan  my  heart  it  is  sad — 
My  friends  and  acquaintances  have  all  gone  abroad ; 
Far,  far  they  have  wandered  from  that  distant  shore — 
Then  fare-you-well,  Dreenan,  an'  sweet  Edenmore." 

Her  voice  still  held  a  note  of  youthfulness,  and  rang 
out  proudly,  as  if  there  lurked  in  her  breast  a  conscious- 
ness that  it  was  not  unpleasant  to  listen  to,  nor,  indeed, 
was  the  time  so  remote  when  Teague  M'Goulrick's  wife 
shone  as  a  sort  of  prima-dofina  in  the  rural  society  of  the 


94  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

district  where  she  had  been  born  and  bred.  But  it  was 
at  a  wedding  or  a  christening  that  her  singing  met  with 
its  full  reward,  for,  though  an  invited  guest,  she  usually 
took  upon  herself  the  onerous  duty  of  entertainer  as  well, 
and  song  followed  song  until  the  lark  wakened  up  outside 
and  carolled  back  in  answer.  And  who  so  oj^enly  glad 
of  her  success  as  her  husband,  Teague — first  and  most 
constant  of  her  many  admirers.  After  twenty-five  years 
of  wedded  life  he  was  her  lover  still,  eliciting  from  Bible 
Andy  the  eucomium  that  they  were  "  Like  two  singing 
birds  in  a  nest — the  lilt  was  seldom  off  their  tongues,  and 
the  hard  word  was  never  heard  between  them." 

She  made  a  bright,  sturdy  picture  in  the  early  sun- 
shine as  she  walked  along  straightly  and  swiftly.  Her 
red  hair,  not  golden,  nor  bronze,  but  aggressive  warm 
red,  shone  like  a  flame,  her  brown  freckled  face  was  very 
pleasant  and  brave,  and  her  strong  white  teeth  flashed 
now  and  again  in  a  gay,  irrepressible  smile.  She  was  in 
a  hurry  this  morning,  though  the  blackbird  called  to  her 
from  the  thorn-tree,  and  the  young  frogs  were  croaking 
in  the  ditches  alongside  the  road.  Usually  she  stopped 
to  listen  to  the  cheerful  sounds,  and  out  of  the  happiness 
of  her  own  heart  made  reply  in  mocking  imitation ;  but 
there  was  no  time  for  such  trifling  to-day,  for  Teague  was 
about  to  start  with  the  pigs  for  Stranorlar  fair,  and  his 
wife  must  be  safe  within  the  four  walls  of  their  cottage 
before  he  set  out. 

"  It  'ud  be  terrible  onlucky  if  the  boneens  met  me  " — 
she  would  say  when  the  neighbours  raised  a  laugh  over 
the  manoeuvres  of  herself  and  Teague — "  an'  that's  why  1 
have  to  hide  in  the  hedge  many's  the  time  when  he  comes 
drivin'  them  up  the  road.  An'  there's  no  doubt  at  all 
but  I'm  redheaded,  aye,  the  worst  sort  of  red-headed, 
too  If  it  was  only  like  ould  Miss  Mackey's  sunburnt 
crimps,  not  a  cratur  need  be  afraid  o'  me." 


S0RCHA    KUADh's    TROUBLES.  95 

But,  "  the  more  haste  the  worse  speed,"  and  Sorcha 
Ruadh,  glancing  down  the  hilly  road,  saw  the  "  rint,"  as 
Teague  called  them,  rooting  calmly  here  and  there,  and 
her  man  himself  peeling  a  long  sally-rod  a  short  distance 
off.  He  was  singing  as  well  as  she,  and  the  words  reached 
her  clearly  :  — 

"  Oh,  rise  up,  Willy  Reilly,  an'  come  along  wi'  me, 
I  mean  for  to  go  wi'  ye  an'  leave  this  coun-ter-ie ; 
To  leave  my  father's  dwelling  his  houses  an'  free  Ian' — 
An'  away  went  Willy  Reilly  an'  his  dear  Colleen  Bawn." 

She  was  close  to  a  gate  leading  into  one  of  their  own 
little  fields,  and  so  quite  safe  while  she  stood  and  watched 
him  unperceived  for  a  moment.  When  the  rod  was 
peeled  to  his  satisfaction,  he  gave  the  nearest  boneen  a 
cut  with  it  that  created  an  abrupt  disturbance  in  the 
mind  of  that  lazy  animal,  causing  it  to  trot  up  the  hill  in 
terror,  followed  by  its  surprised  companions. 

"An'  away  went  Willy  Reilly  an'  his  dear  Colleen  Bawn," 
sang  Teague  emphatically. 

The  high  notes  were  a  marvel,  and  his  wife,  as  he  ended 
tlm  verse  in  a  sentimental  fashion,  peculiarly  his  own, 
could  not  control  her  impulse  to  laugh  out  aloud  from 
her  shelter  behind  the  hedge.  He  started  slightly,  until, 
turning  in  the  direction  of  the  sound,  his  eye  caught  a 
glimpse  of  familiar  red,  when  with  an  amusing  access  of 
dignity  he  straightened  himself  and  walked  on  at  a  busi- 
ness-like speed  after  the  unruly  pigs.  He  winked  know- 
ingly as  he  went,  stopping  to  look  back  at  the  bend  of  the 
road. 

'  Poor  Sally,"  he  murmured,  "  she's  ever  an'  always  the 
same,  whether  the  sun  shines  down  on  her  or  the  clouds 


96  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

are  dark  an'  heavy.  Brave  an'  true  you  always  wor, 
a  bhean  a'  tighe,  an'  brave  an'  true  you'll  be  to  the  end. 
God  bless  ye !  " 

And  Sorcha  Ruadh,  for  her  part,  putting  down  her 
pails  on  the  roadway,  stood  gazing  after  him,  shading 
her  tear-dim  eyes  with  her  hand  :  — 

"  Ah,  Teague,  my  man,"  she  said,  "  there's  little  male 
in  the  chest,  an'  the  stockin's  nigh  empty,  but  so  long  as 
the  love  holds  out  between  you  an'  me,  I'm  content,"  and 
smiling  through  her  tears  she  took  the  three  lucky  steps, 
not"  to  be  omitted,  towards  his  retreating  form. 

One  trouble,  and  one  alone,  had  entered  into  the 
happy  life  of  these  two.  They  would  scarcely  acknow- 
ledge it  by  this  name,  for  Teague  M'Goulrick  was  inor- 
dinately proud  of  his  only  son,  and  Sorcha  Ruadh  adored 
him ;  but  the  handsome,  dark-eyed  boy  was  an  enigma  to 
the  parents.  Full  of  vague  ambitions  and  dreams  be- 
yond their  ken,  imbued  with  aspirations  in  which  their 
contented  thoughts  could  have  no  place,  he  seemed  to 
belong  to  another  sphere  than  theirs.  He  was  as 
sweet-natured  as  his  mother's  son  could  be ;  patient  and 
thoughtful  in  the  little  incidents  of  their  everyday  life — 
helpful  in  all  the  farm-work  with  his  father,  never  idle, 
never  sullen,  and  yet  they  felt  that  the  lad's  days  were 
embittered  by  discontent  and  unfulfilled  desires.  They 
could  not  understand  him,  and  he  knew  it,  and  suffered 
tenfold  agony  accordingly.  Their  sufferings  were  as  in- 
tense as  his  own,  and  a  sense  of  inferiority  gave  them  an 
added  pang,  until  they  felt  sometimes  as  if  he  were  a 
stranger  in  whom  they  had  no  part.  Yet,  though  each 
was  conscious  by  instinct  of  the  other's  misery,  husband 
and  wife  never  discussed  their  trouble — it  would  have 
seemed  like  disloyalty  to  the  boy — but  in  their  own 
loving,   homely   way   they   strove   to   dispel   the   shadow 


BORCHA    RUADH's    TROUBLES.  97 

brooding  in  the  dark  eyes,  and  graving  melancholy  lines 
on  the  young  face,  by  their  genial  plans  for  his  comfort 
and  amusement.  Hugh  was  quick  enough  to  see  the  pa- 
thetic little  subterfuges,  and  to  note  the  jealousy  with 
which  they  regarded  his  silent  moods,  the  books  that  he 
pored  over  in  the  long  winter  nights,  and  the  solitary 
rambles  he  took  in  the  summer  gloamings  up  to  the  hill- 
side, where  he  could  stretch  himself  on  the  heather  alone 
with  his  dreams.  I  le  was  counted  "  terrible  unsociable  ' 
by  all  the  neighbours,  and  the  girls  of  the  valley,  stroll- 
ing down  to  the  riverside  with  their  knitting,  in  the  cool 
of  the  pleasant  evenings,  whither  they  were  usually  fol- 
lowed by  the  boys,  quite  by  accident,  found  that  their 
simple  allurements  were  thrown  away  on  "  M'Goulrick's 
Hugh."  Into  those  cherished  dreams  of  his  no  woman 
had  entered  as  yet,  so  the  girls  turned  their  saucy  glances 
upon  more  responsive  admirers,  and  left  him  to  the 
quietude  he  sought. 

But  there  was  an  awakening  in  store  for  the  boy,  and 
the  inward  voice  urging  him  out  into  the  strife  of  the 
world  was  to  be  hushed  by  another  dearer  summons  that 
came  sweet  and  low,  like  the  song  of  the  linnet  at  sunset, 
and  called  him  to  love  and  happiness  instead,  making 
every  vein  of  his  heart  flush  warm  with  gladness,  until 
for  him  earth  took  a  nobler  beauty,  and  the  heavens  a 
higher  and  holier  grandeur. 

It  was  a  simple  thing,  indeed,  or  so  it  would  appear  to 
many,  that  accomplished  all  this — only  the  coming  of  tall, 
slender  Grania  Mulkerian  to  live  with  her  aunt  and  uncle 
in  their  childless  home  at  Carrickmagrath ;  yet  to  Hugh 
M'Goulrick,  faultily  imaginative  as  he  was,  it  seemed  as 
if  she  came  in  all  her  tender  womanliness  for  his  sake 
alone,  a  ray  of  glory  to  brighten  his  sombre  life,  and 
satisfy  the  undefined  yearning  that  had  tortured  him  for 
years. 

G 


98  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

Sorcha  Euadh  was  the  girl's  godmother,  and  the  long 
separation  had  been  powerless  to  lessen  the  affection  that 
prevailed  between  them.  Grania  made  it  almost  her  fir§t 
duty  to  visit  the  elder  woman,  and  one  day  Hugh,  enter- 
ing the  kitchen  unexpectedly,  saw  her — her  brown  hair 
bent  over  the  flowering  in  her  hand — sitting  close  beside 
his  mother,  whose  kindly  fingers  stroked  the  waving 
tresses  lovingly.  As  he  stopped  abruptly,  a  few  paces 
off,  she  lifted  her  sweet  gray  eyes  and  looked  full  into  the 
dark  ones  gazing  down  at  her.  He  drew  back  and  stood 
speechless.  It  was  as  if  a  flash  of  lightning  had  blinded 
him,  and  blotted  out  his  memory  of  all  things,  save  the 
beauty  of  those  gray  eyes,  and  the  shy  smile  that  dwelt 
in  them. 

His  mother  broke  the  silence — "Tis  little  Grania  grown 
up  and  come  back  to  her  aunt  and  uncle,  don't  ye  mind 
her,  boy? — little  Grania  that  ye  took  bird-nestin'  long 
ago,  and  brought  home  many's  the  time  cryin',  with  a 
thorn  in  her  foot,  for  ye'd  always  tramp  in  among  the 
whins  and  blackberry  bushes — the  rover  that  ye  wor. 
Spake  to  her,  boy,  an'  say  she's  welcome  home." 

How  could  he  speak  with  those  sweet  eyes  smiling 
and  waiting,  yet  he  did  somehow,  though  his  voice 
sounded  unreal  even  to  his  own  ears. 

"  So  you  did  not  know  me,  Hugh,"  she  said,  gently — 
"  'tis  a  long  time,  sure  enough,  still,  I  thought  you'd  re- 
member." She  looked  at  him  half  reproachfully,  like  a 
disappointed  child,  and  he  felt  the  guilty  blush  burning 
over  cheek  and  brow  in  answer,  but  to  himself  he  mur- 
mured afterwards — "  How  could  I  guess  that  it  wasn't  an 
angel  sitting  by  my  mother's  fireside,  and  the  sunlight 
falling  in  a  golden  shower  all  over  and  around  her,  why, 
it  was  shining  in  her  eyes  as  well,  and  that  took  the 
speech  away  from  me  entirely." 


SORCIIA    RUADIl's    TROUBLES.  99 

For  many  days  after  he  could  never  meet  her  without 
the  crimson  flushing  his  dark  cheek,  and  an  awkward 
silence  making  his  presence  somewhat  of  an  embarrass- 
ment to  her.  But  by  degrees  her  gentle  ways  made  him 
feel  less  conscious,  and  it  was  then  she  learned  the  long- 
ing that  was  in  the  heart  of  her  old  playmate,  lie  would 
talk  to  her  by  the  hour  of  his  love  for  their  country  :  — 

"  That's  why  I'd  like  to  be  soldier  in  her  cause,  to 
show  to  the  whole  world  that  life  is  sacred  only  for  her 
sake  after  God's,  and  that  deatli  is  ten  thousand  times 
welcome  if  it  would  but  lead  her  one  little  step  on  the 
road  to  Freedom.  And  day  by  day  I  fret  for  her,  Grania, 
just  as  if  she  were  my  real,  breathing  mother,  and  in  my 
hand  lay  the  power  of  drying  up  her  tears.  That's  how 
it  is — I  feel  her  suffering  as  a  personal  pain,  and  night 
and  morning  I  pray  that  I  may  be  called  upon  to  help 
her,  and  endure  if  need  be.  Sometimes  I  have  longed 
for  comforts  that  my  poor  father  and  mother  have  never 
had,  that  I  can  never  find  here,  but  I've  learned  to  put 
the  longing  aside  and  say  to  myself  that  Ireland  has  been 
praying  and  longing  for  her  Dawn  more  than  seven  cen- 
turies, and  if  I  am  to  be  her  soldier  I  must  learn  to  be 
heroic  in  little  ways  as  well  as  great." 

The  girl's  gray  eyes  reflected  back  the  glow  that 
burned  in  the  brown  ones,  as  they  sat  and  talked  thus  in 
a  little  world  of  their  own,  while  Sorcha  Ruadh,  listening 
intently  to  every  word,  would  shake  her  red  head  now 
and  then  in  a  mixed  wonder  of  admiration  and  reproof. 
Io  seemed  as  if  God  had  intended  those  two  for  each 
other  from  the  beginning.  There  was  no  jarring  note  in 
their  friendship- — his  thoughts,  his  hopes,  his  dreams, 
were  to  be  like  her  own.  She  entered  into  his  fancies 
fondly,  unreservedly,  rejoicing  in  his  pleasures  and  griev- 
ing in  his  grief.     He  hardly  understood  how  strong  and 


100  THE    PASSIONATE    HEAKTS. 

true  her  affection  was— there  is  a  limit  to  a  man's  sym- 
pathy for  a  woman,  but  none  to  a  woman's  for  a  man 
whom  she  comes  nigh  to  loving ;  and  so  it  ended  for 
Grania,  who  awakened  from  her  dreaming  to  find  that 
she  had  crossed  the  border  line  between  earth  and  para- 
dise. 

The  knowledge  came  upon  her  suddenly  one  May  eve 
down  by  the  river,  when  the  hawthorns  loaded  the  air 
with  fragrance,  and  the  daisies  gleamed  like  little  stars 
in  the  short  damp  grass.  She  had  gone  there  alone  that 
she  might  strive  to  understand  what  life  would  be  with- 
out Hugh,  for,  at  last,  wearied  by  the  lad's  persistence, 
Teague  M'Goulrick  had  consented  to  give  him  his  passage 
money  to  America  out  of  their  scanty  hoard. 

"  I  doubt  if  ye'll  be  happier,  boy,  than  your  mother  an' 
me  would  have  made  ye,  but  start,  in  God's  name,  an' 
try  for  yerself,"  he  said. 

The  poor  soft-hearted  mother  smiled  through  her 
tears,  and  held  his  head  on  her  shoulder  while  he  told  her 
in  a  broken  voice  that  it  was  for  all  their  sakes  he  desired 
to  go,  for  all  their  sakes— and  for  Grania's,  too,  he  added 
slowly. 

Sorcha  Ruadh  noted  the  changed  tone,  and  a  keen  stab 
of  jealousy  went  through  her. 

"  Ye 're  terrible  fond  o'  Grania,  darlin',  aren't  ye?' 
she  asked. 

He  lifted  his  head  at  once,  and  spoke  out  eagerly — 
"  Oh,  mother,  I  love  her,  I  love  her,  I  love  her.  I  can't 
tell  you  how  much  or  how  madly.  She's  everything  to 
me.  I'm  wild  at  the  thought  of  leaving  her,  but  how 
can  I  win  her  if  I've  nothing  to  offer — so  I  must  go. 
You'll  watch  over  her  when  I'm  away,  won't  you,  my 
own  kind  mother?  I  couldn't  help  this,  dear;  I  meant 
to  keep  at  home  and  be  a  comfort  to  you,  and  tried  to  get 


>     ) 

> 


SORCHA    RUAlYtt's    TROUBLES.  101 

>        ^       >  ■ 

rid  of  iny  fancies — then  Granii  came,  aud  when  we 
talked  together  they  grew  stronger  than  ever — she 
seemed  like  a  part  of  my  hopes,  and  I  found  that  I  must 
have  been  waiting  for  her  always.  And  she  doesn't  know 
— she  looks  upon  me  as  a  brother  almost,  though  I  be- 
lieve I  could  teach  her  to  care  if  I  had  a  chance  of 
making  a  home  for  her  like  other  men.  I  must  try  and 
make  it,  mother,  and  you'll  guard  her  for  me,  and  talk 
about  me  now  and  then,  so  that  she'll  remember." 

Jealousy  and  giief  still  wrenched  at  her  heart-strings, 
but  tSurcha  liuadli  overcame  them. 

"  Tell  her  yer  story  yerself,  a  y  radii,'  she  said,  "  an' 
God  speed  ye.  That's  the  worst  o'  men— they  never 
know  when  a  woman  is  breakin'  her  heart  for  them,  be- 
cause she  keeps  the  smile  before  the  world,  when  maybe 
'tis  her  mornin'  an'  evenin'  prayer  that  somebody  'ud 
only  spake  the  word  she's  dyin'  to  hear.  Never  judge 
the  girl  ye  love  by  her  face,  son,  but  go  an'  tell  her. 
Don't  wait  for  riches — love  is  the  best  of  all,  an'  some  of 
us  'ud  rather  starve  on  a  crust,  an'  be  loved,  than  live  in 
a  gran'  palace  without  it.  Look  at  yer  father  an'  me — 
we  had  a  hard  struggle  many's  the  time,  an'  we  knew 
what  the  hunger  was,  too,  but  we  had  the  love  between 
us,  an'  we  had  you." 

The  boy  caressed  her  tenderly  as  she  clung  to  him  in  a 
paroxysm  of  grief  for  a  moment.  "  Go,  darlin',"  she  re- 
peated, "  an'  spake  to  yer  little  girl,  an'  bid  her  come  to 
the  mother  that's  waitin'  for  her." 

Hugh  felt  that  Grania  would  be  watching  for  him  by 
the  riverside  as  usual,  and  there  he  found  her  leaning 
against  a  tree  trunk,  with  her  slender  hands  folded  idly 
in  her  lap,  and  her  grey  eyes  full  of  mourning.  She 
noted  the  quiver  in  the  sensitive  lips,  the  pallor  on  the 
dark   face,  and  waited  for  him  to  speak. 


102         r''-  ',CllE    tA^SIGNATE    HEARTS. 

"  I've  told  father  and  mother,  Grania  dear,  that  I've 
made  up  my  mind  to  go  away  and  do  something  with  my 
life.  They  wouldn't  listen  at  first,  but  now  they  see  it 
is  best." 

"  When  do  you  leave,  Hugh  1  "  she  faltered. 

"  The  sooner  the  better,  or  I  can't  go  at  all.  God 
pardon  me  for  giving  them  this  grief,  but  I  must  ease 
their  lot  of  pinching  and  grinding  work,  though  they  are 
happy  enough  in  it,  somehow,  and  then  I  must  be  worthy 
of  you,  Grania.  Oh,  my  dearest,  don't  you  know  it — 
that  I  love  you,  every  hair  on  your  dear  brown  head, 
every  smile  in  your  sweet,  sweet  eyes.  Have  I  startled 
you,  a  ruin?  Then  forgive  me,  but  I  love  you  beyond  all 
expression — you  are  the  one  woman  in  the  universe  for 
me — the  one  star  to  draw  me  from  sinful  ways  into  the 
upward  path  you  tread.  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  feel,  how 
undeserving  I  am  of  you,  but  if  you  would  only  give  me 
one  grain  of  hope  to  cany  away  into  my  new  strange 
wanderings,  it  would  help  to  keep  me  strong  and  brave 
and  true.    .One  little  word,  dearest." 

And  Grania ;  she  rose  from  her  seat  under  the  blossom- 
ing chestnut,  and  placing  one  hand  on  the  lad's  dark 
head,  with  the  other  she  raised  his  sorrowful  face  to  her 
own  and  kissed  it. 

"  It  is  the  first  time  I've  done  it  to  any  man,  love,"  she 
whispered,  "  but  now  let  it  bear  comfort  to  your  heart. 
Whether  the  waiting  be  short  or  long,  whether  you  come 
back  to  me  or  never  come  again,  I  will  be  watching  for 
you,  God  granting,  either  here  or  beyond  the  grave.  My 
love  is  yours  for  all  time,  and  my  faith  and  my  hope." 

What  need  of  further  words  between  them  when  their 
souls  had  spoken  in  the  agony  of  impending  separation ; 
but  they  clung  to  each  other  in  a  silence  that  was  more 
fraught  with  tenderness  than  any  speech  could  be. 


SORCHA    KUADh/s    TROUBLES.  103 

Yet  Hugh's  departure  was  not  so  near  as  either  ima- 
gined. The  old  folk,  losing  courage  at  the  last,  begged 
their  boy  to  stay  until  after  the  harvest,  and  as  he  looked 
on  his  father's  bent  form,  and  at  his  mother's  wan  smile, 
that  tried  to  be  brave,  he  promised. 

June"  came  in  with  torrents  of  heavy  rain  that  lasted 
almost  without  intermittance  throughout  July.  Such  a 
wet  season  had  rarely  been  known  in  a  country  that  suf- 
fered much  from  heavy  floods,  and  the  farmers  discussed 
anxiously  the  fate  of  the  crops,  dotted  here  and  there 
with  pools  of  water,  and  beaten  down  with  the  incessant 
showers.  The  damp  heat  pervaded  the  whole  valley, 
bringing  fever  in  its  train.  First  it  attacked  the  little 
children,  and  then  the  kindly  parish  priest,  journeying 
between  the  grief-stricken  households,  fell  a  victim  to  the 
insidious  disease.  Lamentations  arose  from  end  to  end 
of  the  district;  in  the  graveyard  every  day  saw  fresh  pits 
open  to  receive  the  pallid  holocausts,  and  no  man  knew 
when  his  own  hour  might  come. 

Grania  went  about  like  an  angel  of  mercy  from  one 
bedside  to  the  other,  soothing  the  wild  ravings  of  a 
frightened  sufferer,  or  wiping  the  death-damp  off  a  brow 
from  whose  worn  pitifulness  God's  Hand  had  banished 
the  pain.  She  was  untiring  in  her  sympathy  and  gentle 
attentions  to  the  distraught  people.  Night  after  night 
she  sat  watching  and  praying,  until  shadows  ringed  her 
sweet  grey  eyes,  and  the  lovely  bloom  forsook  her  cheeks. 
Hugh  M'Goulrick  shared  her  vigils  as  often  as  it  was  pos- 
sible, and  in  vain  begged  her  to  take  a  rest.  He  grew 
full  of  dread  at  sight  of  the  weariness  that  brooded  over 
her,  though  she  never  complained,  and  only  smiled  when 
he  held  her  little  thin  hand  against  his  lips. 

At  last  a  day  came  when  her  devotedness  cost  her  dear, 
and  the  news  went  abroad  that  Grania  Mulkerian  was 
down  with  the  fever. 


104  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

The  sick,  who  had  learned  to  look  for  her  presence  near 
them,  might  call  and  call  to  her,  bnt  the  soft  voice  never 
answered  their  distressing  cries.  Never  on  earth  again 
would  she  press  an  aching  head,  nor  lift  a  little  ice-cold 
child  from  its  mother's  clinging  arms  to  prepare  it  for 
the  tomb. 

The  Great  Summoner  had  touched  her  with  his  wings, 
and  the  gates  of  Heaven  were  opened  wide  to  let  her 
through. 

One  poor  boy,  who  loved  her  better  than  all  the  world, 
knelt  in  speechless  agony  by  her  side,  while  her  burning 
lips  breathed  his  name  faintly  and  fondly.  His  strained 
dark  eyes  never  left  her  face,  and  his  fingers  kept  their 
frantic  grasp  of  hers  even  when  the  pure  soul  had  for- 
saken its  earthly  tenement.  When  the  mourners  had 
left  her  to  the  last  sleep  he  fell  upon  the  grave,  and  lay 
there  in  an  apathy  of  despair,  without  sigh  or  tear,  and 
those  who  came  to  seek  him  in  the  twilight,  raising  his 
head  with  kindly  hands,  feared  that  his  anguished  spirit 
had  gone  to  join  hers  beyond  the  skies. 

Ever  after  he  went  about  with  the  look  of  one  seeking 
for  something  lost.  His  father's  hay  grew  tardily  ripe 
in  the  meadows — the  sodden  fields  needed  draining — 
the  thatch  over  their  heads  gave  sign  of  wear  and  tear, 
but  from  Hugh  M'Goulrick  all  interests  in  life  had  de- 
parted when  the  clay  was  piled  over  the  gray-eyed  girl 
he  worshipped.  The  old  people  endured  this  ordeal  for 
a  time,  until  they  saw  that  the  boy's  salvation  laj  in  a 
change  of  scene.  So  they  hinted  to  him,  diffidently,  that 
the  passage-money  had  been  kept  safe  against  his  de- 
parture, rolled  up  in  the  old  stocking  in  the  chest.  He 
made  no  reply  to  the  suggestion,  nor  referred  to  it  again, 
but  it  was  evident  that  though  he  might  resent  any  in- 
trusion upon  his  grief,  yet  he  seemed  to  turn  more  grate- 


sorcha  ruadh's  troubles.  105 

fully  to  his  mother  than  he  had  done  during  the  more 
poignant  period  of  his  desolation. 

At  last  the  blow  fell,  and  the  pain  of  parting  with 
their  only  son  was  added  to  the  trouble  already  weighing 
on  the  overburdened  hearts  of  Sorcha  Ruadh  and  her 
husband.  He  held  ont  no  hope  of  returning  to  his  home, 
but  bade  them  good-bye  with  a  solemnity  that  seemed 
meant  for  ever,  and  they  understood  and  blessed  him  in 
the  soft  impressive  Gaelic  of  their  native  valley. 

A  few  letters  reached  the  lonely  couple,  telling  how  he 
had  joined  Meagher's  Brigade,  and  giving  an  account  of 
what  had  befallen  him.  lie  wrote  that  a  soldier's  death 
was  the  only  boon  he  craved,  except  their  loving  prayers. 

When  the  roll  was  called  on  the  morning  of  December 
14th,  1862,  there  was  no  response  from  Private  Hugh 
M'Goulrick,  for  he  lay  face  downwards  on  the  blood- 
stained slope  at  Fredericksburg,  with  a  bullet  through 
his  breast.  His  comrades,  in  after-days,  by  many  a 
camp-fire,  told  how  this  quiet  Irish  lad  had  been  the 
bravest  of  the  brave,  fighting  with  the  grimmest  deter- 
mination in  the  wake  of  the  General,  and  when  the  dead 
were  being  removed  from  the  battle-field,  he  was  found 
lying  close  to  the  earthworks,  behind  which  the  Georgian 
Militia  had  taken  their  stand. 

When  the  news  reached  the  old  people  it  found  them 
somewhat  prepared — though  their  grief  was  beyond  all 
earthly  consolation,  and  the  last  glint  of  red  in  Sorcha 
Ruadh' s  hair  faded  slowly  afterwards,  until  it  grew  as 
white  as  one  of  the  nodding  blossoms  of  the  bog-cotton. 
Her  song  was  heard  no  more  by  the  banks  of  Finn  Water, 
and  the  blackbird  might  whistle  from  the  garden  hedge 
without  fear  of  rivalry ;  her  singing  days  were  over  when 
her  son  clasped  hands  with  sorrow.     The  meeting  Above 


106 


THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 


was  now  her  sole  desire,  and  on  balmy  summer  evenings, 
when  she  had  put  everything  to  rights  within  the  little 
cottage,  Sorcha  Ruadh  would  lead  her  feeble  husband  to 
the  stone  seat  under  the  clinging  honeysuckle  outside 
their  door,  and  so  sitting  together,  and  talking  of  their 
dear,  dead  boy,  and  Grania,  they  prayed  God  in  his 
mercy  not  to  part  them,  but  to  send  the  last  call  for  both 
together. 


A?  W\ 1m  V 

%S& 

Er      Kj       ^*-\-^^fflfi^/^^^**l^'^y^^(L^ 

^v4ll^O^ 

Bp  tbe  mislp  Burn* 


BY  THE  MISTY  BURN. 


QP  on  Gortawarla  the  heather  grew  so  thick  and 
tall  that  the  two  children  who  crouched  in  the 
nook  they  had  made  there  were  hidden  as  if  in 
a  little  nest  where  they  could  exchange  confidences  un- 
disturbed, and  kiss  each  other  in  childish  joy  of  the  com- 
panionship. Beside  them,  on  a  bed  of  soft  grass,  lay  a 
fiddle,  which  the  boy  eyed  with  tender  affection,  reaching 
out  his  thin  hand  to  touch  it  lovingly.  He  was  a  hand- 
some lad,  dark-curled,  and  with  a  high  clever  brow,  but 
the  pallor  on  his  face,  and  the  weariness  in  the  brown 
eyes  were  sad  to  see.  A  crutch  lying  near  told  the  tale 
of  his  sufferings,  and  why  a  thrill  of  pain  rang  ever  in  his 
voice. 

The  girl  was  a  small,  elfin,  agile  creature,  red-haired, 
and  violet-eyed.  She  was  like  a  streak  of  sunshine 
against  the  dark  boy.  "  'Tis  the  bright  little  blossom 
she  is,"  people  said,  and  only  her  father's  second  wife 
thought  otherwise,  having  no  children  of  her  own.  So 
the  love  that  came  bubbling  up  from  the  heart  of  Una 
MacFelimy  was  given,  in  all  its  lavishness,  to  the  crip- 
pled lad  from  the  mill,  since  in  her  home  there  was  none 
t:>  prize  it.  When  she  could  steal  an  hour  from  the 
herding  in  the  summer  afternoons  she  would  run  panting 
up  the  slope,  to  the  trysting-place,  and  in  the  sobbing 
and  laughing  of  Shameen's  fiddle  she  found  her  joy.  He 
had  a  wonderful  way  with  it.  His  slender  body  used  to 
quiver   with   passionate  sympathy  as  he  played,  and  his 


110  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

touch  was  delicately  firm  and  true.  In  these  treasured 
moments  Una  was  his  sole  audience  and  critic,  and  in 
her  violet  eyes  he  read  his  praise  or  blame. 

It  was  when  Shameen  was  slowly  recovering  from  the 
terrible  fall  that  had  crippled  him  for  life,  and  old  Cor- 
mac  MacKenna  used  to,  come  with  his  fiddle  to  soothe 
him,  that  Roger  O'Cahan  gave  the  Little  Red  Lark  to 
his  son.  The  name  was  Shameen's  own.  "  For  it  is  the 
little  red  lark  she  will  be  surely,  father  dear,  when  I 
learn  to  play  on  her,  and  she'll  sing  all  the  songs  you 
love  to  hear,"  he  said,  clutching  the  new  fiddle  to  his 
breast,  and  the  father  turned  away  with  a  sigh  as  the 
eyes  of  his  dead  wife  looked  at  him  gratefully  out  of  the 
pinched  pale  face. 

Shameen  lay  back  on  his  pillows  and  gave  himself  up 
to  the  happiness  of  possession.  He  kissed  the  fiddle 
through  a  rain  of  tears. 

"  Oh,  fiddle  dear,  fiddle  mo  chroidhe"  he  cried  ten- 
derly, "  my  own  little  fiddle.  Look  at  the  little  strings 
of  her,  and  the  shine  all  over  her,  and  the  little  keys  that 
are  so  white  and  smooth.  Oh  fiddle,  a  ghradh,  sure  it  is 
my  heart  you  are,  and,  when  I  wake  the  music  that's  in 
me  you'll  speak  it  all  out  on  your  beautiful  strings. 
What  will  Una  MacFelimy  say  at  all,  at  all  1  " 

For  hours  he  sat  there,  oblivious  of  the  flight  of  time, 
drawing  the  bow  softly  to  and  fro.  His  dreams  were 
well-nigh  a  living  ecstasy — they  were  so  sweet. 

"  It  is  yourself  will  not  be  slow  to  learn,"  said  old 
Cormac,  when  he  came  to  give  him  his  first  lesson,  "  for 
she  knows  you  already,  and  when  a  fiddle  knows  you, 
you  needn't  care  how  the  wi^d  blows  or  the  world  wags, 
if  you  have  the  music  in  you.  She'll  bring  you  peace  if 
your  heart's  sore  with  trouble,  and  friendship  if  you're 
lonely;  and  she'll  make  you  forget  the  hunger  and  thirst 


BY    THE    MTSTY    EUTIN.  Ill 

when  the  poverty's  on  yon.       Ah,  true,  Shameen  Beag, 
the  gift  is  yours,  and  God  send  you  speed  with  it." 

It  was  not  long  then  until  Shamcon  knew  the  old 
man's  repertoire  by  heart,  and  after  that  he  began  to 
make  little  airs  of  his  own.  To  these  he  used  to  sing 
verses  composed  on  the  subjects  which  affected  him  most 
at  the  time ;  the  trill  of  a  bird  rising  from  the  heather  j 
the  fall  of  the  hawthorn  blossoms  in  a  shower  of  pink 
and  white  on  the  grass  below ;  the  swish  of  the  great 
mill-wheel  as  it  churned  the  water  into  froth  under  his 
gable-window.  He  was  happy  with  a  glad,  grateful  hap- 
piness, yet  in  every  note  he  played  a  sadness  lurked,  as  if 
in  spite  of  himself  the  boy's  soul  was  drenched  with 
sorrow.  His  father  said  he  believed  Shameen  thought 
and  prayed  in  music,  as  he  heard  the  strains  come  softly 
from  the  gable-room  upstairs.  The  neighbours  called  it 
unnatural :  "  The  boy  is  being  destroyed  entirely  by  his 
fiddling  and  his  fancies.  He  sits  there  day  after  day  by 
the  Burn-side,  fiddling,  fiddling,  always,  except  when  he 
is  poring  over  a  book,  and  it  is  not  a  word  he  will  be  giv- 
ing you  when  you  speak ;  he  will  let  you  pass  by  as  if 
you  were  a  ghost,  and  he  had  no  eyes  or  cars  for  anything 
but  his  own  dreams." 

One  day  quite  a  flutter  of  excitement  was  caused  in 
the  drowsy  village  by  the  sight  of  Shameen  limping  down 
the  road  in  animated  converse  with  the  fairy-woman, 
Shivaun  Sheehy.  She  was  a  half-witted  vagrant,  with  a 
rather  bad  reputation  around  the  countryside.  It  was 
said  she  blinked  the  cattle,  and  was  accustomed  to  say 
her  prayers  backward,  which  meant  that  her  spells  might 
have  power  over  her  enemies.  She  came  begging  to  Kil- 
meena  every  summer,  sleeping  under  the  hedges  or  in 
some  unguarded  barn.  One  of  her  accomplishments  was 
fortune-telling,   which   the   foolish   young   lovers   of   the 


112  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

place  often  encouraged,  unknown  to  their  elders. 
Charms  and  love  potions,  too,  she  carried  round,  in  her 
ragged  pack,  and  had  a  keen  eye  to  a  bargain  in  her  deal- 
iDgs.  But  no  one  ever  thought  to  see  the  quiet  boy, 
whose  shyness  made  him  avoid  the  social  life  of  the  vil- 
lage, standing  with  his  hand  in  hers,  and  his  eyes  rivet- 
ted  on  her  withered  face. 

"  'Tis  telling  him  his  fortune  she  is  surely,"  they  ex- 
claimed in  amazement,  watching  the  pair  from  their 
doorways.  "  Telling  him  his  fortune,  no  less !  Well, 
God  help  the  poor  garsun,  for  he's  lost  what  little  sense 
he  had  at  last.  What  fortune  could  she  be  telling  him 
that's  a  cripple  and  half-astray  into  the  bargain  1 '' 

It  was  by  mere  accident  that  Shameen  had  met  her 
there.  As  she  passed  him  by  she  tottered  in  weariness, 
and  the  bundle  on  her  shoulders  slipped  from  its  insecure 
fastenings.  Observing  this,  the  boy,  hurrying  forward, 
stooped  to  pick  it  up.  She  took  the  bundle  from  him 
without  a  word,  looking  into  his  eyes  long  and  fxedly. 
Then  she  lifted  his  right  hand  and  peered  closely  at  the 
lines  on  his  palm. 

"  So,  so,"  she  muttered  at  last  in  her  high  cracked 
voice.  "  You  are  another  one  with  the  eyes  to  see  but 
not  the  sense  to  use  them.  Oh,  boy  dear,  there  a  cailin 
will  be  waiting  for  you  when  your  day  comes  to  be  a  man, 
a  sweet  cailin,  with  a  heart  of  gold,  and  the  soul  of  a 
dove,  and  she'll  love  you — that  she  will,  a  mhilis — more 
than  life  and  beyond  death.  You  have  the  music  in  you, 
too.  Well,  she  will  stir  it  to  the  very  depths,  and  in 
every  note  you  play  you  will  hear  her.  Listen  for  her 
and  her  footfall  will  be  near  you ;  call  her  and  she  will 
come ;  love  her  and  her  love  will  be  stronger  than  death. 
Don't  let  her  pass  by,  or  the  sorrow  will  be  on  you  till 
your  dying  day;  and  you'll  never  be  rid  of  the  loneliness 


BY    THE    RUSTY    BUiiN.  113 

till  the  shroud  is  wrapped  about  you.  Though  there  is 
a  blight  on  you,  and  you'll  never  be  like  other  men,  her 
love  will  burn  the  fiercer  for  that,  mo  bhuachaill.  Mind 
now  what  old  Shivaun  says,  for  it  is  put  into  my  heart 
to  know  and  my  tongue  never  lies/'  She  spoke  rapidly, 
with  many  gesticulations.  Her  speech  was  in  Gaelic, 
and  its  picturesque  diction  made  the  boy  feel  rather  than 
hear.  He  stood  wondering  and  trembling  when  she  had 
left  him  and  gone  her  way.  Then  he  turned  towards 
Gorfcawarla,  longing  for  the  quiet  of  its  heathery  crest  in 
this  new  and  most  unexpected  sensation  that  had  be- 
fallen him. 

He  lay,  his  fiddle  resting  beside  him,  stretched  out  on 
the  mountain  blossoms,  thinking  deeply,  when  the  voice 
of  Una  MacFelimy  broke  in  upon  his  reverie.  She  threw 
herself  down  panting.  An  excited  curiosity  flamed  in 
her  violet  eyes,  and  rang  shrilly  in  her  eager  greeting. 

■*  Oh,  what  did  the  little  fairy  woman  say  to  you, 
Shameen?  " 

Shameen  Beag  twisted  round  in  the  heather  half- 
petulantly,  while  his  dark  brows  met  in  a  sudden  frown 
above  his  beautiful  eyes. 

"  Is  it  what  the  little  witch-woman  said  to  me,  Una 
MacFelimy,  you  want  to  know?  Well,  then  'tis  not  my- 
self will  tell  it,  not  even  to  you/' 

Una  looked  at  him  in  amazement,  not  comprehending 
this  first  refusal  from  his  lips.  He  saw  the  surprise  in 
her  face,  and  his  voice  grew  gentler. 

'•  Tis  a  secret,  so  it  is,  a  chailin  6g,  between  her  and 
me,  and  you'd  never  understand  the  wonder  of  it,  and 
the  fear.  For  it  is  fear  that  is  with  me  since  she  spoke 
and  told  me " 

He  broke  off,  suddenly  realising  how  near  h<3  had 
drifted  towards  confidence. 

"  Told  you  what,  Shameen,  a  ghtadht  " 


114  THE    PASSIONATE    HEAUTS. 

"  Now,  Una  Buadh,  'tis  no  use  to  ask  me,  for  this  is  my 
own  secret  and  you  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  It  is 
about  a  lovely  lady  that  I  am  to  many  when  I  am  a 
man."  He  smiled  proudly.  "  But  I'll  tell  you  no  more. 
I\To,  not  even  one  single  word  more." 

"  A  beautiful  lady,  Shameen  !  Who  is  she,  and  where 
dees  she  live  ?  " 

"  That  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  boy,  "  but  she  is 
somewhere  in  the  world  and  waiting  for  me,  and  she 
loves  me  truly  wherever  she  may  be.  She  is  so  beautiful, 
so  beautiful !  and  when  the  old  woman  held  my  hand  I 
seemed  to  see  her  standing  there  in  the  sunlight." 

"  But  you  said  you  would  marry  me,"  cried  Una 
vehemently.  "  You  always  said  you  would  marry  none 
but  me." 

'  Oh,  that  was  before  I  knew,"  said  Shameen  calmly. 
'  It  is  different  now,  and  I  am  bound  to  her." 

Tears  stood  thick  on  Una's  long  fair  lashes,  and  her 
small  red  mouth  quivered  piteously.  She  laid  her 
bright  tangled  head  against  his  black  one  with  a  sob. 

"  Vo,  vo,  vo,"  she  wailed.  "  Shameen,  is  this  all  the 
love  you  have  for  me  that  you'd  go  away  to  marry  a 
stranger.  O,  vo,  sure  you  don't  mean  it,  Shameen,  a 
chuisle?  " 

There  was  a  touch  of  impatience  in  his  voice  as  he 
turned  to  soothe  her.  "  Don't  cry  so,  a  chailin  6g.  It 
won't  be  till  I  am  a  man,  and  somebody  will  be  coming 
for  yourself  maybe  before  that." 

At  this  Una's  tears  fell  faster,  and  she  buried  her  face 
upon  his  shoulder.  '*  Shameen,"  she  whispered,  "  it 
wasn't  me  grown  up  you  saw — was  it  now?  Had  she  e'er 
a  look  of  me  at  all  ?  " 

'  You,  Una  MacFelimy.  You !  Did  I  not  say  that 
she  was  a  beautiful  strange  lady  whose  heart  is  half  of 


BY    THE    MISTY    BURN.  115 

my  heart,  and  whose  soul  is  twin  of  my  soul.  And  how 
could  that  be  you?  You  are  only  a  little  country  girl, 
and  she  was  like  a  queen." 

At  this  the  tangled  red  head  was  lifted  haughtily,  and 
a  Hash  came  into  the  tear-wet  eyes.  "Very  well,  Shaineen 
O'Cahan,"  she  said  fiercely.  "  Go  to  your  lady.  I'll 
net  hinder  you.  Maybe  'tis  like  the  lady  of  the  castle 
beyond  shell  be — sweet  outside  and  bitter  within,  and 
tie  tongue  of  her  like  a  two-edged  sword.  What  will 
you  do  then,  Shaineen  ?  " 

He  moved  wearily  away  from  her.  "  I  think  I  will 
play,"  he  said,  "  for  I  am  tired,  and  you  are  cruel,  Una 
MacFeliiny." 

At  this  the  girl's  arm  went  round  his  neck  in  a  pas- 
sionate embrace.  "  There  now,  there  now,  Shaineen 
dear,"  she  murmured,  as  tender  as  any  mother,  '  there 
now.  Sure  I  wouldn't  vex  you  for  the  whole  wide 
world." 

He  returned  her  kiss  gravely,  and  took  up  his  fiddle, 
pacified,  forgetful  for  the  moment  oi  all  else  but  his 
music.  "  It  is  the  Song  of  the  Misty  Burn  I  will  be 
playing  you,  now,  a  chailin  6<j,"  he  said.  "  I  played  it 
last  night  until  I  got  frightened  all  by  myself  in  the 
dark.  The  ghosts  walked  about  in  the  corners,  or  may- 
bj  'twas  the  shadows  moving— but  I  thought  them 
ghosts.  The  little  witch-woman  said  I'd  see  wonderful 
things,  but  that  they'd  never  harm  me. 

"  'Tis  you  that's  the  great  boy,  Shameen,"  murmured 
Una  reverently,  nestling  closer  to  him;  "  great  entirely. 
No  other  boy  in  Kilmeena  can  tell  all  about  the  stars 
above,  and  what  the  waters  sing — and  play  it  on  your 
fiddle,  too.  And  the  Misty  Burn.  No,  what  is  the  Song 
of  the  Misty  Burn,  a  ghradh  1  " 

Her   eyes    smiled   into   his,  and  the  lad  drew  himself 


116  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

ereet  with  the  fiddle  held  under  his  chin,  and  the  bow  up- 
lifted. 

"  Nobody  knows  it  but  me,"  he  said  proudly,  "  except 
the  trout,  and  the  wind,  and  the  little  grasses  that  grow 
on  the  banks.  The  fishers  never  hear  it,  for  their  hearts 
are  hard  to  the  fishes,  and  the  Burn  will  not  make  music 
for  them.  Nor  do  the  children  hear  it — the  children 
who  throw  stones  in  to  make  the  bubbles  rise,  for  they 
drown  the  song  with  their  noise.  Only  someone  that 
sits  quietly  listening  until  it  begins  can  catch  it;  so 
softly  at  first  and  so  sweetly,  then  louder,  and  louder  and 
louder,  but  it  is  always  soft  and  sweet  and  sad.  If  you 
close  your  eyes  you  can  hear  it  coming  afar  off  down  the 
little  ripples." 

He  drew  the  bow  across  the  strings  and  began  to  play 
a  quaint  tremulous  air.  Then  he  broke  into  soft  chant- 
ing like  a  lamentation:  — 

"  Running  water,  running  water,  rippling  all  the  day, 
'Tis  my  grief  for  little  Maire  who  is  gone, 
Ah,  the  eyes  your  waves  went  over,  when  you  swished 
and  danced  above  her, 
Above  the  little  cailiii  ban! 

"  Running  water,  running  water,  'twas  her  flaxen  hair 
Trailed  like  a  net  of  gossamer  in  the  dewy  dawn 
Across  your  stones  below,  when  they  came  and  found 
her  so, 
Found  the  little  call  tit  ban! 

"  Running  water,  running  water,  her  father  cannot  sleep, 

He  listens  to  the  wind  at  night,  sobbing,  sobbing  on — 

And  he  hears  her  gasping  breath  who  fought  a  figkt 

with  death. 
Mo  bhron,  his  little  cailin  ban! 


BY    THE    MISTY    BURN.  117 

"  Running  water,  running  water,  her  mother's  heart  is 
wild 
For  the  clinging  hand  now  cold,  the  cheek  that's  wan, 
For  the  child  who  was  her  pleasure;   her  golden  store 
and  treasure, 
Her  little  laughing  cailin  ban!  " 

"  Ah  then  but  she  was  cold  and  white,  little  Maire 
Boyle,  and  dripping  wet  when  they  brought  her  home  in 
the  morning,"  he  mused — his  song  ended.  "  That's  why 
the  Misty  Burn  is  sad;  for  there  was  no  harm,  oh,  no 
harm  at  all  in  little  Maire,  and  no  reason  why  she  should 
die  under  the  water,  and  she  so  small  and  young." 

Una  looked  at  the  boy  wistfully.  Her  cheeks  were 
pale  because  of  his  theme;  but  her  pride  in  him  shone 
out  like  a  glory  from  her  sweet  blue  eyes. 

"  That's  what  the  witch-woman  knew  was  in  you, 
a  ghradh — only,  only  Shameen  dear,  don't  believe  what 
she  told  you  about  the  beautiful  lady.  Sure  you  won't, 
sure  you  won't?  It's  me  you  love — me,  and  I'll  love  you 
true   and   always.     Kiss    me,     Shameen,    a^ain,     again, 


again ! 


It  was  after  this  that  Brien  MacFelimy's  second  wife 
put  a  stop  to  Una's  rambles  over  Gortawarla.  "  She  is 
growing  a  big  girl  now,"  she  said  to  her  husband,  "  and 
soon  someone  will  be  asking  her  to  a  home  of  her  own. 
She  must  learn  to  milk  and  churn  and  spin  like  another 
woman.  That  mad  boy  of  O'Cahan's,  with  his  fiddling 
and  queer  ways,  is  not  fit  company  for  her." 

She  so  filled  Una's  days  with  work  that  the  girl,  when 
evening  came,  was  fain  to  rest  rather  than  climb  the 
steep  hill  to  the  trysting-place.  After  a  time  the  acute 
daily  longing  to  see  Shameen  left  her,  but  she  saw  him 


118  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

in  her  dreams  at  night.  Though  his  life  was  a  secluded 
one  in  the  remote  Millhouse  she  still  heard  much  of  what 
concerned  him.  She  knew  of  his  wild  sorrow  when  his 
father  died  and  of  his  lonely  life  with  old  Molshie,  his 
nurse,  as  sole  companion.  True,  he  had  his  books,  and 
his  Little  Red  Lark ;  but  Una  did  not  know  how  often 
he  yearned  for  the  playmate  of  his  childhood  and  her 
quick  loving  sympathy,  in  those  moments  of  depression 
which  comes  to  weak  and  strong  alike.  Shameen  had 
many  a  bitter  dreary  hour  to  himself  in  the  stillness  of 
the  night,  when  sleep  hovered  afar,  and  the  sharp  stings 
of  pain  rent  his  body  like  the  passage  of  a  burning  sword. 
Then  he  found  that  it  needed  all  his  resignation  to  thank 
God  for  existence.  Sometimes,  of  a  Sunday,  Una  and 
he  met  in  the  Chapel-yard,  and  walked  gravely  and 
slowlv  together  down  the  lane.  He  still  suffered  from 
the  lameness  of  his  boyhood,  though  now  he  had  no 
longer  need  of  a  crutch  to  help  his  steps.  Una  had 
grown  into  a  pretty  girl ;  the  tangled  red  hair  had  been 
repressed  into  decorous  coils,  and  the  violet  eyes  had 
learned  to  keep  their  flashes  of  joy  and  glooms  of  sorrow 
hidden  behind  the  veil  of  their  long  lashes.  Speech  was 
rare  with  her  on  these  occasions  ;  Shameen  it  was  who 
poured  out  all  his  thoughts  and  longings  as  of  old,  while 
she  listened  to  his  every  word  with  rapt  attention.  Per- 
haps her  own  thoughts  were  too  sacred  for  words  when 
he  was  near ;  so  she  moved  discreetly  by  his  side,  content 
and  blissful ;  loving  that  poor  slight  body  of  his  with  all 
the  devotedness  of  her  first  pure  love.  He  seemed  to 
feel  it  intuitively,  for  his  dark  eyes  were  always  tender 
when  he  turned  them  on  her  flower-face ;  but  if  he  cher- 
ished a  regard  for  her  beyond  that  of  mere  affection  born 
of  their  childish  intimacy,  he  never  appeared  to  realise 
it;   he  only  knew  that  he  was  happier  on  those  Sunday 


BY    THE    MISTY    BURN.  "119 

strolls  than  at  any  other  time,  and  with  the  knowledge 
of  this  momentary  pleasure  his  period  of  introspection 
began  and  ended.  The  Glen's  folk,  looking  after  the 
boy  and  girl,  shook  their  heads  sagely.  "  He  doesn't 
know  his  mind,"  they  said,  "  though  he  is  now  his  own 
master  and  can  take  his  way.  But  she  knows  hers,  does 
Una  MacFelimy,  if  he  would  but  speak  the  word.''  Yet 
no  word  of  love  came  from  his  lips,  and  if  she  held  a 
secret  hope  to  her  heart  she  gave  no  sign,  only  the  little 
bright  face  grew  paler  in  those  days  of  suspense  as  she 
listened  to  the  kindly  commiseration  that  came,  unwit- 
tingly, in  indiscreet  whisperings  to  her  ear. 


One  wild  evening  in  late  autumn  Sliameen  sat  in  his 
corner  of  the  settle  playing  idly.  He  began  several  airs ; 
but  broke  off  impatiently  after  a  bar  or  two  of  each.  A 
fever  of  restlessness  pervaded  him;  his  pulse  throbbed 
hotly.  His  thoughts  w7ent  back  to  his  childhood  on 
Gortawarla,  and  the  little  playmate  of  those  vanished 
days.  She  was  a  woman  now,  and  he  a  man  ;  though  he 
could  not  run  and  leap,  and  shoulder  the  camdn  like  the 
other  men  he  knew.  Ah,  dear  God,  the  pity  of  it! 
Yes,  Una  was  a  woman,  a  sweet  wild  rose— a  winsome, 
lovely — ah,  dear  God,  dear  God  ! 

His  eyes  grew  dim  as  memory  quickened,  and  in  the 
corners  of  the  old  kitchen  fantastic  shadows  danced  be- 
yond the  flickering  glow7  of  the  fire.  Molshie  knitted 
away  placidly  on  her  three-legged  stool  in  the  ingle. 

He  a  man !  Yes,  Christ  lie  sees — but  a  man  lonely 
and  unhappy  often.  "  It  is  not  good  for  man  to  be 
alone."  True,  true !  But  when  a  man  is  waiting  for  a 
prophecy  to  come  to  pass  he  can  never  be  unhopeful,  and 
never  quite  alone.     And  such  a  prophecy  !       What  did 


120  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

the  f  airy-woman  say  ?  "  A  cailin  with  a  heart  of  gold 
and  the  soul  of  a  dove,  who  will  love  you  with  a  love  that 
is  strong  as  death."  His  beloved !  He  could  picture 
her  as  he  fancied  her  through  all  these  years ;  tall,  fair 
and  pale,  gray-eyed ;  the  only  colour  in  her  face  was  on 
those  smiling  red  lips ;  the  flaxen  hair  of  her  was  a  sunny 
glory.  She  had  kept  his  heart  from  other  women,  for 
how  could  he  look  upon  a  less  when  the  star  of  all  woman- 
hood was  his  to  win.  Ah,  send  her  soon,  soon,  dear  God 
—the  waiting  is  weary. 

Outside,  the  rain  lashed  heavily  against  the  shutters, 
and  the  Misty  Burn  sobbed  as  it  swept,  swelled  high  by 
the  floods  under  the  window.  He  bent  his  head  to  listen 
to  the  sough  of  the  wind.  A  wild,  wild  night,  and  the 
leaves  scurrying  by  with  a  patter  like  the  footfall  ci  fairy 

folk. 

He  lifted  his  bow,  but  before  he  could  draw  it  across 

the  strings  a  timid  tap  on  the  door  caused  him  to  start. 

'  Molshie,  woman  dear,"  he  cried,  "  there's  r:ome  poor 
creature  knocking  without.  Open  to  whoever  it  is  in 
God's  name." 

'  In  God's  name  I  bid  ye  come  out  of  the  storm,"  said 
she,  throwing  the  door  wide. 

The  slender  figure  that  entered  came  straight  to  the 
fire  without  a  word.  Her  cloak  was  heavy  with  rain,  a 
dark  hood  shrouded  her  face.  Shameen  peered  at  her 
through  the  uncertain  light  half  in  doubt. 

"  Is  it  Una  MacFelimy  ? — Is  it  yourself  that's  in  it, 
my  girl  ?  "     His  voice  was  full  of  bewilderment. 

She  threw  back  the  cloak  with  an  abruptness  that  left 
little  streaks  of  rain-water  upon  the  white  hearthstone. 
He  saw  that  the  red  curls  were  tossed  and  wet,  also,  and 
that  above  her  flushed  cheeks  her  eyes  shone  with  un- 
natural brightness.  Was  it  the  rain  that  lay  upon  their 
lashes — or  tears? 


BY    THE    MISTY    BURN.  121 

"  Una,  Una,  what  has  brought  you  so  far  in  the  storm  ? 
Is  all  well  with  you,  a  learibh  ?  " 

She  gave  a  little  gasping  cry,  and  threw  out  her  hands 
towards  him  in  supplication. 

"  Oh,  Shameen  Beag,  is  there  a  God  above  us,  at  all, 
at  all  1  Tell  me,  tell  me  quick.  Is  He  looking  down  on 
me  this  bitter  night,  or  am  I  dreaming  or  mad  1  ' 

'  Come  here,  a  chailin  6g,  come  here,"  he  crossed  to 
the  fire  and  took  her  cold  hands  in  his,  tenderly. 

"  Sit  beside  me,  a  ghradh,  and  tell  me  your  trouble." 

"  Ah,  not  beside  you,  Shameen,  yet  awhile,"  she  said, 
sinking  down  on  the  floor  near  his  seat.  "  This  is  how  I 
used  to  sit  with  you  when  we  were  little.  Don't  you  re- 
member? " 

He  nodded  silently. 

1 1  haven't  been  in  this  kitchen  for  years  now,  Sham- 
een, not  since  I  grew  up,  but  it  is  as  homely  as  ever,  and 
as  restful.  There  never  was  such  a  restful  place  in  the 
world.  The  crickets  made  the  only  noise  when  the  wheel 
was  silent.  I  used  to  envy  you  and  wish  it  was  my  home 
as  well  as  yours." 

She  leaned  her  elbow  on  the  settle,  and  looked  up  wist- 
fully into  his  face.     Her  lips  trembled  piteously. 

"  'Tis  a  sorrowful  errand,  Shameen,  that  is  mine  this 
night.  But  on  earth  there  was  no  one  I  could  come  to 
only  you.     And  they've  forgotten  me  in  heaven." 

"  What  is  your  sorrow,  giarsa?  " 

"  They're  marrying  me  in  the  morning,  Shameen." 

"A  leanbh!     A  leanbh!  " 

"  Yes,  in  the  morning,  to  Denis  Freel,  of  Ardtrasna, 
over  the  mountain.  Black  Denis  that  has  buried  his 
second  wife,  and  has  sons  as  big  and  rough  as  himself. 
Black  Denis,  Shameen,  and  I  never  dreamt  that  when  he 
came  to  bargain  for  my  father's  cows  it  was  on  me  his 


122  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

eye  had  fallen.     Oh,  Mhuire  a's  truagh!    I  never  dreamt 
— not  the  least  little  bit." 

Hitherto  she  had  forced  herself  into  a  sort  of  calmness, 
but  the  pent-up  tempest  could  not  be  restrained  longer. 

"  I  am  so  young,  so  young,"  she  wailed.  "  I  begged 
them  to  let  me  stay  and  work  and  be  happy,  and  I 
prayed  to  Mary  and  my  dead  mother;  but  none  heeded 
me.  They're  selling  me  to  slavery  and  sorrow,  Shameen ; 
for  it's  whispered  that  the  other  women  died  of  heart- 
break. Oh,  I  could  work  for  my  bite  and  sup  with  the 
strangers  if  they  would  only  leave  me  free — ay,  work  my 
fingers  to  the  bone  and  be  glad." 

"  God  help  you,  a  chailin  6g,  God  help  you." 

She  rose  from  where  she  cimiched  upon  the  floor,  and 
came  closer,  kneeling  by  him. 

"  Is  there  a  heart  in  you  at  all,  Shameen  Beag 
O'Cahan,  that  you  can  sit  there  and  pity  me?  What 
good  are  your  words  ?  Will  words  comfort  me  wh^n  I'm 
wild  with  trouble,  and  this  is  my  last  night — my  last 
night — in  my  father's  house.     Ah,  Shameen." 

Her  sudden  fierceness  ended  in  a  sob.  She  folded  her 
arms  on  his  knees  and  looked  straight  into  his  sad  dark 
eyes. 

"  Have  you  forgotten  Gortawarla,  a  hhiinchaUl  dubh?" 
she  whispered  softly,  'and  the  happy  times  we  had  to- 
gether there  ?  There  was  no  one  in  the  whole  wide  world 
1  loved  so  well  as  you." 

"  And  I  loved  you,  a  chailin  deas." 

"  And  when,  many's  a  time,  the  rain  fell  on  us  up  in 
the  heather  who  kept  you  dry  and  warm  under  the  little 
frock  she  took  off  herself,  because  you  were  a  dawny 
boy?" 

"  You — 'twas  you,  a  ghradh." 

"  And  when  the  pain  came  on  you  from  your  poor  hurt 


BY    THE    MISTY    BURN.  123 

limb,  who  cried  because  she  could  not  bear  it  instead — • 
ci  Led  and  cried  till  her  heart  grew  sore?  " 
"  Oh,  Una,  mo  mhuirnin,  'twas  you." 
"  And  who,"  her  eyes  burned  now,  "  stood  in  front  of 
you  that  day  the  wild  bull  of  Manus  Mor's  met  us  on  the 
Ridge,  until  she  felt  his  breath  on  her  face,  and  his  cruel 
sharp  horns  almost  against  her  before  Big  Manus  came?" 

"  Who  but  you,  a  stoir—  who  but  you?  " 

'  And  is  it  only  words  of  pity  you  have  for  me,  Sham- 
een  O'Cahan,  after  that?  " 

Her  e)res  held  his  steadily.  For  a  moment  an  answer- 
ing passion  seemed  to  kindle  in  his  dark  young  face ; 
then  he  paled  somewhat,  and  drew  back  in  embarass- 
ment. 

'Is  that  all,  I  ask  you?'  Una  repeated  bitterly. 
"All,  Shamecn  Beag?" 

He  looked  at  her  as  if  he  scarcely  understood,  and  lift- 
ing up  his  fiddle  again,  drew  the  bow  shaq)ly  across  the 
strings. 

"  All,"  he  replied  reluctantly.  "  What  can  I  do  or 
sav  more  than  I  have  done?  The  fault  isn't  mine,  Una, 
but  theirs  chat  bargained  you  to  the  widow-man." 

At  this  her  hands  clenched  wildly,  and  she  rocked  to 
and  fro  in  a  tortured  silence.  Shameen  gazed  down  on 
the  bowed  head  of  curls,  for  her  face  was  hidden.  Then 
she  rose,  pallid  as  death,  but  tearless,  and  threw  the 
heavy  cloak  around  her  once  more. 

"  God  sees,"  said  old  Molshie,  "  that  you  can't  go  out 
in  that  storm,  a  hanbh.  Stay  the  night  and  sleep  in  my 
ved." 

The  girl  laughed.  "  It  is  my  way  home  I  must  be 
taking,  instead,  good  woman — my  thanks  to  you,  all  the 
same.  And  my  blessing  on  you,  Shameen  O'Cahan,  for 
the  comfort  you've  given  me  this  night." 


124  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

She  0£>ened  the  door  hastily,  and  passed  out  into  the 
darkness.  A  shudder  shook  the  house  as  gust  after  gust 
hurled  itself  against  the  walls.  The  rain  came  sweeping 
in  sheets  down  the  valley,  but  Una  set  her  face  co  meet 
it  and  walked  steadily  on.  Her  heart  was  a  dead  thing 
in  her  breast;  she  no  longer  felt  the  whip  of  the  rain  or 
the  buffetting  of  the  storm. 

Shameen,  as  she  stepped  across  the  threshold,  had  half- 
arisen.  His  hands  went  out  towards  her.  "  A  chailin, 
a  chailin  6g,  do  not  go,"  trembled  on  his  lips.  "  Stay, 
a  leanbh"  but  the  door-feel  shut  with  a  clash  behind  her, 
and  his  words  were  lost  in  the  noise. 

He  drew  his  fingers  wearily  across  his  brow.  "  Maybe 
'tJ3  better  so/'  he  murmured,  "  since  it  is  bespoke  I  am 
already.    But,  oh  !  poor  little  Una — my  grief — my  grief." 


It  was  when  the  red  of  her  hair  had  faded  into  gray, 
and  the  uprightness  had  left  her  still  slender  form,  that 
Una  streaked  her  husband  for  his  burial.  He  had  been 
a  hard  man,  and  had  died  hard.  Her  life  with  him  was 
sordid  and  weary,  crowded  with  daily  duties  which  she 
fulfilled  in  an  uncomplaining  Hstlessness.  No  children 
were  born  to  her,  and  for  that  she  thanked  heaven.  Had 
there  been — she  shuddered  to  hear  the  rough  man  curs- 
ing his  labourers  outside — the  sons  would  have  partaken 
of  their  father's  vices  perhaps ;  and  the  daughters — what 
was  before  them  save  a  life  such  as  she  herself  had  known 
in  that  riotous  household?  Yes,  through  all  her  misery 
she  thanked  God  for  this  blessing  withheld. 

Occasionally,  news  reached  her  from  the  other  side  of 
th<„  mountain,  carried  thither  by  pedlars  and  travelling 
women.  Her  ears  were  keen  to  listen,  as  she  moved 
through  the  kitchen  quietly,  and  her  heart  leapt  almost 


UY    TUE    MISTY    BUttN.  125 

to  suffocation  at  the  sound  of  one  dear  name.  Jt  was 
then  she  learned  how  Shameen  fared,  and  she  wondered 
that  he  still  lived  alone.  She  was  jealously  glad  of  his 
loneliness,  although  she  pitied  him  for  it.  "  The  pro- 
phecy hasn't  come  true,  then,"  she  would  whisper  to  her- 
self. "  The  fairy- woman  had  other  meaning  for  what 
she  told  him,  maybe.  Oh,  pulse  o'  my  heart,  nad  you 
only  loved  me  instead/'  No  one  heard  her  cry,  it  had 
its  beginning  and  eiidiug  in  her  patient  soul. 

At  the  wake  of  Black  Denis  she  knew  that  desolation 
lay  heavy  indeed  upon  Shameen  O'Cahan.  "  lie  is  bed- 
ridden now,  the  poor  crathur,  the  little  strength  he  had 
has  given  way  at  last,"  one  told  her.  "  The  neighbours 
go  in  and  out  to  him,  but  'tis  little  they  can  do." 

When  the  sods  were  heaped  upon  her  husband's  giave, 
Una  gathered  her  scanty  belongings  and  bade  farewell  to 
his  family.  "  I  am  going  back  to  my  own  people/''  she 
told  them,  "  and  I  want  nothing  from  you  but  the 
clothes  I  wear.  Vv7hatever  your  father  left  to  me  can  be 
divided  amongst  you." 

But  it  was  not  to  the  house  where  she  was  born,  and 
where  she  had  known  her  first,  and  bitterest,  sorrow,  the 
pale  woman  went.  She  set  her  feet  straight  for  the  goal 
of  her  heart,  and  the  gladness  in  Shameen's  eyes  was  her 
recompense  as  she  bent  above  him. 

"  Is  it  an  angel  from  heaven,  or  Una  come  back  to 
me?  "  he  whispered,  holding  her  hand. 

She  had  no  voice  to  speak — the  tears  were  too  near. 

"  Una,  a  ghradh,  you  will  never  leave  me  again  '. 


>> 


"  Never  again,  Shameen,  never  again." 


"  Oh,  God  be  thanked,  mo  mliuirnin.  God  and  Mary 
be  thanked." 

There  were  no  gossiping  tongues  to  insult  her  in  that 
peaceful  valley;  for  each  and  all  valued  her  sacrifice  at 


126  THE    PASSIONATE    HEARTS. 

its  true  worth.  So  she  stayed  on  tending  him  through 
the  days  that  followed ;  tending  bim  with  a  love  and  de- 
votedness  that  saw  in  his  increasing  querulousness  only 
something  that  touched  her  motherliness  to  the  core. 
He  had  power  to  hurt  her  still,  as  when  he  regretted  his 
lost  youth,  and  the  non-realisation  of  the  ideal  he  had 
treasured  through  so  many  years  of  suffering. 

"  I  was  not  able  to  go  out  into  the  world  and  seek 
her,"  he  would  say.  "  So  she  grew  tired  of  waiting  for 
me,  and  I  have  missed  her  for  ever." 

There  came  a  time,  all  too  soon  to  the  weary  watcher, 
when  he  seemed  to  forget  this  fancy.  Una  felt  sorrow- 
fully then  that  the  end  was  nearing.  Her  heart  had 
been  torn  between  love  and  pity;  for  his  pain  was  so 
great  and  prolonged  at  periods,  that  she  prayed  he  might 
be  taken  and  relieved,  but  at  other  times  she  could  only 
think  of  her  loss  and  yearn  to  keep  him  still. 

The  last  night  of  his  life,  as  she  knelt  beside  bim,  he 
begged  her  to  prop  him  up  and  lay  the  fiddle  to  his  hand. 
She  did  so,  wondering.  Raising  the  bow,  with  the  flour- 
ish she  used  to  smile  at  in  the  old  days,  he  played,  one 
after  the  other,  his  childish  compositions,  never  missing 
a  note ;  with  his  head  bent  forward  as  if  listening  to  an 
echo  of  them  somewhere.  Suddenly  he  laid  down  the 
bow  and  looked  into  her  upturned  eyes.  His  own  were 
very  bright,  the  glow  of  youth  seemed  alight  again  on  his 
face. 

"Have  I  found  you  at  last,  a  dhilisV  he  cried 
eagerly.  "  A  chuisle  mo  chroidhe,  my  own,  my  own.  Put 
your  dear  hand  in  mine,  my  treasure,  and  say  you  love 


me." 


Una  obeyed  him,  and  in  her  eyes  he  read  her  thought 
that  his  mind  was  wandering. 

"  No,  Una  a  stair,  not  that,  not  that.     It  is  my  mind 


By  Tin;  MISTY  burn.  127 

that  is  clear  at  last,  and  I  see  now  what  I  have  been  blind 
to  so  long.  It  was  you  I  waited  for,  and  yours  are  the 
eyes  I  saw  that  day  my  dream  first  came  to  me.  I  have 
lost  the  joy  of  life  because  I  followed  the  dream,  and 
did  not  see  my  true  star  shining  within  my  reach.  Lay 
my  head  close  to  your  heart,  now,  a  chailin  6g.  Closer, 
closer.  We  will  be  parted  soon.  Say  you  forgive  me, 
Una  mo  chroidhef  " 

'  Oh,  Shameen,  dear,"  she  moaned,  "  don't  break  my 
heart  entirely." 

'  Ah,  the  fond,  fond  heart  it  was  always,  Una.  And 
I  was  so  unworthy.  But  maybe  God  will  make  it  up  to 
us  beyond  the  grave." 

He  turned  half  round  with  a  restless  movement,  and  a 
sigh,  and  she  heard  him  mutter  drowsily  : 

"  'Tis  the  beautiful  fiddle  surely — the  sweet  little 
fiddle  she  is,  my  Little  Red  Lark.  Oh,  sorra  the  little 
fiddle's  like  her  in  the  whole  country.  She's  my  treasure  ; 
aud  listen,  listen  fiddle  a  ruin — 'tis  my  heart's  song  you'll 
be  singing  when  I  play  on  you.  What  will  Una  Mac- 
Feliiny  think,  fiddle,  a  stair,  when  she  hears  me  and  you 
together? — when — she — hears " 

His  voice  trailed  off  into  silence,  and  when,  in  an 
agony  of  dread,  Una  lifted  her  white  face  from  the  pil- 
low, she  was  alone  with  her  sorrow. 

Then  through  the  stillness  before  dawn,  there  came  to 
her,  like  a  caoin,  the  sound  of  running  water  over  the 
stones  of  the  Misty  Burn. 

THE    END. 


[P.T.O. 


t^XJOvj 


Printed  by  An  Clo-Ctmuuin,  Ltd.,  Great  Strand  Street,  Dublin 


■^exjo^ 


ETHNA    CARBERY'S   POEMS. 


^"NNE  of  the  most  remarkable  things  in  the  Irish 
^"^^  book  world  during  recent  years  has  been  the 
phenomenally  rapid  sales  and  wide  appreciation  of 
Ethna  Carbery's  poems,  "  The  Four  Winds  of 
Eirinn/'  which,  being  published  only  eleven 
months,  has  gone  into  its  Tenth  Edition.  Probably 
no  book  in  recent  years  was  received  with  such 
enthusiastic  praise  by  critics  of  all  ways  of  thinking. 
Extracts  from  a  few  of  the  opinions  expressed  are 
here  given. 

The  mysterious  Fiona  Mac  Leod,  in  an  article 

upon  the  book  in  the  Fortnightly  Review,  said  : — 

"One  Copy  of  such  a  book  as  "The  Four  Winds  of  Eirinn  " 

is  enough  to  light  many  unseen  fires In  essential  poetic 

faculty  Ethna  Carbery  stan/'s  high  among  the  Irish  poets  of  to-day.  In 
this  respect  indeed  she  falls  behind  none  save  Mr.  Yeats  and  "A.E."  ; 
and  as  an  Irish  writer  for  an  Irish  public,  I  doubt  if  any  of  those  just 
named  has  more  intimately  reached  the  heart  of  the  people.  Than  Mr 
Yeats,  Ethna  Carbery,  while  not  less  saturated  with  the  Gaelic  atmosphere, 
possesses  a  simplicity  of  thought  and  diction  foreign  to  the  most  subtle  of 

contemporary  poets Her  earliest  as  her  latest  verse  has  the 

quality  of  song  and  the  vibration  of  poetry.  And  prom  first  to  last  there  is 
in  it  the  Gaelic  note  so  distinctive  from  any  other  note  ;  here  Ethna 
Carbery  is  Irish  in  a  sense  in  which  the  other  women  poets  of  her  hour  and 

nation  cannot  claim  to  be One  may  quote  from  each  poem  in 

the  book.  All  are  Gaelic  in  mould  of  thought  and  colour  of  art.  Perhaps 
the  poems  which  longest  will  lie  close  to  the  Irish  heart  are  those  which 
show  the  shadow  of  Irish  sorrow  and  the  rainbow  gleam  of  Irish  hope — 
— that  sorrow  and  that  hope  which,  from  the  grey  glens  of  Donegal  to 
Kerry  of  the  Kings,  inspire  all  the  songs  that  are  sung,  and  all  that  is 
imperishable  in  the  Nation's  heart." 

"  Many  weary  days  shall  pass,  and  years  will  be  counted  by 
the  score,  before  the  touches  of  Ethna  Carbery's  genius,  the 
wail  of  her  song,  and  the  music  of  her  lyre,  will  be  forgotten. 


She  has  touched  a  chord  that  must  needs  awaken  the  hearts  of 
Erin's  sons  and  daughters  the  wide  world  over.  In  her  poems 
the  spirit  of  the  Nation  is  once  more  revived,  and  the  utterance 
she  has  given  it  shall  be  re-echoed  from  afar.  She  has  lit  the 
torch  of  hope  in  a  good  cause,  and  of  faith  and  confidence  in 
the  brawny  arms  of  her  countrymen  at  home,  and  in  the  deter- 
mination of  many  an  exiled  son." — The  Leader  (San 
Francisco). 

"  This  is  the  most  charming  volume  of  poems  published  in 
Ireland,  or  out  of  it,  for  many  a  long  day.  ...  A  beautiful 
monument,  'tis  true,  and  far  more  enduring  than  carved  granite 
of  Donegal.  .  .  .  The  dominant  notes  are,  tenderness,  truth, 
and  a  passionate  love  of  country.  Here  are  love  songs  as  Irish 
as  the  singer's  heart.  .  .  .  Ethna  Carbery's  poems  alternately 
bring  tears  to  one's  eyes,  and  quicken  the  blood  in  one's  veins. 
....  There  are  few  phases  of  Irish  life,  history,  or  legend, 
that  her  many-sided  genius  did  not  adorn." — The  Irish  People. 

*'  Steeped  to  the  lips  in  the  legendary  lore  of  Ireland,  she 
lived  in  a  world  of  imagination,  which  had  its  roots  in  the  past, 
and  its  hopes  and  ideas  in  the  future.  .  .  .  While  in  this  book 
we  move  from  wonder  to  wonder,  nowhere  are  we  distracted  or 
tortured  by  the  misshapen  fantasies  of  a  sickly  brain.  It  is 
natural  magic  in  the  truest  sense  of  the  word.  No  less  remark- 
able than  the  prodigality  of  fancy  is  the  richness  and  variety  of 
melody  which  animate  its  sounds.  They  are  purely  lyric  in 
quality  and  form.  The  music  is  everywhere  true,  and  as  full  as 
it  is  new.  One  marvels  at  the  spontaneousness  of  every  thought 
and  every  word.  With  as  little  effort,  or  premeditation,  as  the 
birds  in  the  Land  of  Perpetual  Youth,  sang  this  gifted  child  of 
Irish  song.  This  must  not  be  taken  to  imply  that  there  is  no 
art  in  her  verses ;  but  her  art  is  the  art  of  nature ;  an  instinct 
rather  than  an  acquisition.  Anna  MacManus,  one  feels  in  read- 
ing this  volume,  sang  with  an  intensity  which  must  inevitably 
have  consumed  the  vital  energies  in  a  short  space  of  time." — 
The  Daily  News. 

"  Her  songs  are  a  heritage  for  all  people  and  for  all  time,  and 
we  are  proud  and  glad  to  claim  her  as  our  own  child  to-day." — 
The  Northern  Whig. 

"  In  this  book  we  hear  the  pathetic  voice  of  National  love  and 
aspiration,  embalmed  in  true  song.  There  is  no  trace  of  poetic 
imitation  in  her  work.  It  is  not  easy  to  name  a  new,  or  a  late 
poet— and  perhaps  none  since  Jean  Ingelow — whose  verse  is  so 

essentially   melodious    as    Ethna    Carbery's As    Emerson 

says,  the  titles  are  half  poems."— The  New  York  Times. 

"  Wherever  a  true  son  or  daughter  of  Ireland  is  to  be  found, 
at  home  or  abroad,  a  heartfelt  welcome  will  be  extended  to  this 


exquisite  book  of  verse.  Her  genius  is  so  unmistakable  that 
none  could  deny  its  existence  even  if  they  were  not  in  sym- 
pathy with  her  sentiments.  No  one  who  has  been  swayed  by 
the  passion  of  patriotism,  no  one  who  has  learned  to  know  the 
meaning  of  love,  and  drank  of  its  bitter-sweet  draught,  can  fail 
to  feel  their  heart's  fibres  stir  as  they  read  the  words  wafted  to 
them  on  The  Four  Winds  of  Eirinn.  .  .  .  Many  moods  find 
expression  in  the  poems — mystical  and  simple,  lofty  and 
humble,  passionate  and  tender ;  but  every  mood  gives  express- 
ion to  the  sympathy  of  the  country.  The  voice  of  Ireland 
speaks  to  us  through  the  singer.  There  is  not  a  line  in  the  book 
that  is  not  full  of  interest  and  beauty  and  charm.  Few  books 
have  been  published  of  late  years  of  such  merit,  and  possessing 
such  strong  claims  on  the  Irish  public." — The  Irish  Weekly 
Independent. 

"  Ireland  incarnate — Ethna  Carbery  sang  of  its  beauty,  its 
joys:  its  sorrows,  with  a  wistful  hope,  like  a  pathetic  little  heart- 
break, running  through  all  her  songs.  It  is  a  chord  more  notice- 
able now  that  she  has  laid  aside  the  lute  for  ever ;  though  the 
music  she  gave  the  world  still  sings  on  in  the  hearts  of  others. 
Her  personality,  as  seen  through  her  work,  is  peculiarly  like 
that  of  the  Southern  women  of  Dixie  Land — so  rich  is  it  in 
hope,  faith,  love,  and  loyalty  ;  so  unswerving  in  devotion  to 
duty.  Women  with  Ethna  Carbery's  talent  and  loyalty  are  so 
rare,  and  the  world  needs  them  so  much,  that  their  loss  is 
keenly  felt.  Yet  there  is  this  comfort: — Their  deeds,  their 
patriotism,  and  the  courage  they  inspire,  will  live  on  for  ever." 
The  Memphis  Scimitar  (Tenn.,  U.S.A.). 

"  The  wide  sympathy  with  which  she  wrote,  the  tender  deli- 
cate touches  that  revealed  the  hidden  beauty,  ....  She  was 
herself  a  poem  incarnate  ;  tender  and  sweet,  and  true  and  pure, 
gracious  and  refined  as  one  of  her  Irish  princesses,  and  kindly 
as  one  of  her  peasants.  God  gave  her  grand,  rare  gifts,  and  she 
dedicated  them  to  a  high,  holy  cause.  Her  life  was  all  too 
short,  but  her  works  will  live  after  her  for  all  time." — The 
United  Irishman. 

"  Those  who  knew  her  only  through  her  writings  loved  her  so 
much  that  her  name  came  to  their  lips  every  time  their  thoughts 
turned  to  Irish  Ireland." — The  Southern  Cross  (Buenos  Ayres). 

"  Here  is  given  to  the  Irish  race  a  memorial,  which  they 
should  dearly  prize,  of  one  of  Ireland's  truest  and  most  loving 
singers — of  her  whose  poems  have  enkindled  and  fed  in  other 
bosoms  the  sacred  fire  of  love  of  Ireland,  and  of  all  that  was 
truly  Irish." — The  Irish  Emerald. 

"  The  poems  herein  enshrined  are  vibrant  with  a  passionate 
love  of  the  Land  of  the  Gael ;  instinct  with  the  Gaelic  spirit, 


saturated  with  Gaelic  legend,  breathe  true  Gaelic  mysticism  and 
spirituality ;  tell  of  Gaelic  valour,  heroism,  love ;  and  fear  not 
to  couple  the  names  of  God,  and  Mary  His  Mother,  of  Patrick, 
Bridget  and  Columcille." — The  Irish  Catholic. 

"  This  is  the  song  book  of  one  who  lived  and  worked  for  her 
country,  who  strenuously  tried  to  keep  alive  in  youthful  and 
manly  hearts  the  hope  for  freedom,  and  the  aspiration  after  fine 
ideals  ;  of  one  who  was  a  source  of  helpfulness,  and  joy,  and 
enthusiasm." — The-  Freeman's  Journal. 

"  The  book  is  indeed  full  of  beauty,  and  that  bright  spirit  of 
hope  which  was  part  of  Ethna  Carbery's  nature.  In  herself  she 
represented  the  new  forces  which  are  weaving  light  and  colour 
into  the  life  of  the  land.  The  destiny  of  Ireland  was  no  mourn- 
ful destiny  to  her.  Her  clear  vision  lifts  itself  above  the 
caoiners  of  the  centuries,  she  moves  in  Red  Hugh's  triumphs, 
and  sees  the  grandeur  of  the  past.  Forward  she  beholds  the 
dawning  light,  and  heralds  it  with  song.  .  .  .  Ethna  Carbery 
had  that  insight  into  hidden  and  spiritual  things,  the  possession 
of  which  is  the  mark  of  a  true  poet.  .  .  .  The  Four  Winds  of 
which  she  sang  brought  her  voices  from  dun  and  rath,  from 
fairy  mound  and  ruined  castle,  from  high  Aileach  of  the  sleep- 
ing heroes,  from  royal  Tara  and  the  cairn  of  kings.  And  what 
she  heard,  her  subtle  and  delicate  fancy  re-shaped,  and  set  forth 
in  lasting  form.  Her  love-songs  are  full  of  tender  and  exquisite 
expression,  as  if  to  her  the  birds  of  Angus  Og  had  revealed  the 
inmost  soul  of  love  and  beauty.  In  her  more  mystical  poems 
there  is  a  glamour,  a  vision  of  beauty  caught  in  glimpses,  a 
reticence  and  mystery." — The  Irish  Daily  Independent. 

This   book,  in  a  handsomely  designed   cover, 
costs  is.  in  paper  binding,  and  2S.  in  Irish  linen  ;  per 
post  to  any  part  of  the  world,  2d.  extra.       It  may  be 
had  from  all  booksellers,   or  per  post,  from 
"  IRISH    NIGHTS"    OFFICE, 

70    GREAT   STRAND   STREET,    DUBLIN. 

A  second  volume  of   Ethna  Carbery's   stories 
will  appear  next  season. 


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